Katana and Hamburglar's quail, Hamlet, died this morning. She was a button quails, and button quails don't perch but she did, because she had been hand-trained. She perched on shoulders, heads, and basically any surface that was big enough to support her. She was well-loved, and regardless of how much I dislike birds, regardless of my habit of using humor as a defense mechanism, there's no way to gloss over the death of a beloved pet.
I am notorious for avoiding emotional situations. As aforestated, I make jokes to diffuse the tension, regardless of how poorly they are received and how much of an ass I seem. It's a disease, and I'm not proud of it. (Okay, it's not really a disease, but it sure seems like it.) But anyway, this isn't about me and my issues. It's about that little bird that everyone liked so much, who lived her life as long as she possibly could because she loved her people so much, who had an interesting romance with the boy next door, and who would sing when we talked loudly in the next room.
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