Grief is a funny thing. Two months ago, our family pet, Spunky the cockatiel, passed away. I got this news in the middle of a phone call with mum and dad while in London, while in the middle of relaying news to the them that was far more tragic and momentous. Spunky lived a good, long life, as good a life as a bird in a cage can live I guess.
Recently I had a dream about Spunky. He was dying, and I was trying to save him. But he was regressing through life stages - he was old and pale, then he was younger and bright, then a small little chick, then a hairless chick, and finally an egg. The eggshell cracked and he was a yoke...I tried to pick him up, telling myself not to break the yoke, but I couldn't help it, the yoke slipped out of my hands and started to run.
Grief. Time. It often surprises me.