Stories Along the Way

Originally written July 2011

Bub came into my life because Graeme was trying to mend my heart.

After we lost Meggie, I missed him terribly. Meggie had been part pet and part wild bird—comfortable with us, but also free to spend time outside socialising with his own flock.

Graeme knew how much I missed having that little presence around the house, so he bought me another bird.

That was Bub.

Of course, one bird could never replace another. Bub wasn’t Meggie, and before long I stopped expecting him to be.

He became Bub.

And I loved him for himself.

Because I had been so used to the freedom we gave Meggie, I wanted the same sort of life for Bub. I didn’t want him to spend his whole life looking at the outside world through the bars of a cage.

So I started training him.

Whenever I was on the balcony, Bub came with me. At first everything was close and controlled, but gradually his confidence grew. He learned to fly out of his cage and manoeuvre his way back into it. I could sit there and watch him practising—out, around, turn, back home again.

It fascinated me.

There was a tree directly in front of our balcony, and eventually Bub began flying over and perching in it.

He could sit among the branches, feel the breeze, hear the other birds and experience something closer to the life birds were made for.

And then he would come back to me.

I trusted him.

More importantly, I think Bub trusted that he could fly away and still have a home waiting for him.

For a while, it worked beautifully.

Until one day it didn’t.

Bub was perched in the tree in front of our balcony when a butcherbird noticed him.

Everything happened so quickly.

The butcherbird attacked.

I was there.

I could see what was happening, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it.

That helplessness is probably the part I remember most.

I had looked after this tiny creature, taught him to fly, watched him learn how to leave his cage and return to it, and delighted in every little bit of independence he gained.

And then I had to stand there and watch a butcherbird kill my baby.

It was horrific.

For a long time, I’m sure part of me questioned what I had done.

If I hadn’t taken him outside.

If I hadn’t trained him to fly freely.

If I had simply kept him safely inside his cage.

There are plenty of ifs available when something you love dies.

But when I look back at the photographs of Bub now, I don’t want the final few moments of his life to swallow everything that came before them.

Because Bub had flown.

He had learned.

He had sat in a real tree rather than spending his whole life looking at one through a screen.

He knew what it felt like to leave his cage by choice—and to come home by choice.

And most of all, he was loved.