One of my birds died rather suddenly overnight. Was going to take her to the vet when it opened this morning after noticing bad signs last night, but she’d been dead for a few hours when I woke up.

She was Thor, and the other bird, Loki, her mate, is currently very loudly singing a bunch of, presumably, death songs.

Liam named them without knowing their sex. The fact that Thor and Loki have been enthusiastically fucking each other in a cage in my room for a number of years would no doubt be pleasing to many readers of slash fiction.

It’s darkly funny that Thor is the one who died, because she was the one who sorta liked me, in that she would tolerate me helping her out when she was sick or egg-laying with only a few light bites.

Now me and Loki have to become friends, because birds do not do well alone. My fingers are gonna suffer.

He is probably pissed off at me, because from his perspective, last time Thor was sick, I magically fixed her by putting her in an ice cream container for a day. This time I did not.

Instead I put her in a cardboard box and took her away after she’d been dead in there with him for probably a few hours. That last part is good, in a way, because that gave him time to know she’s dead, so he can grieve properly. Cockatiels are smart enough to grieve.