Death by hydrangea is the most devastating death of all.
If you’ve been keeping up with the plans we’ve been making, you know we’ll be going to Scotland and Ireland very soon. I’ve been doodling during the months leading up to the trip.
Was so looking forward to see ponies and Vikings in Shetland. Plans change, though.
So here’s the thing about Sin.
One of my favourite memories of Sin was from back in Madison, when I’d just moved into my new space. And I mean “just” — everything was still in boxes, nothing was out, and I had to start somewhere. It occurred during the first year that I’d got her, since Peeps wasn’t around yet, and I know I got him a year after Sin.
I made sure Sin was comfortable and safe in her cage in the living room where I’d designated her spot to be, then went into the bedroom to get to work.
Not even a few minutes later, I heard a chirp and turned around. Sin, her tiny feet going pitter-patter on the carpet, scurried toward me.
She had climbed all the way out and down her cage, managed to weave her away around all manners of boxes and obstacles and items stashed haphazardly around the living room — a brand new, totally foreign space she’d never seen or been in or explored before — and found her way to where I was in the bedroom so that she could be with me.
That’s Sin for you. Unafraid of anything, except for that phase in which she hissed at anything bright blue plastic. She’d crawl up my knee and onto my shoulder just so she can peer along as I take apart a faulty VCR. She’d jump from a perch or finger across crazy distances, always intent in the belief that of course she can make it, she’s got things to do and places to see, man, life’s too short.
I could tell you so much about her adventures. Her intelligence. Her persistence. The soft, gentle feel of her. The sweetness of her scent. All I learned from her, for her. But there aren’t enough words.
I had her for 12 years. She would’ve been 13 in September. That’s still too short a time.