Yesterday, Mist, our cockatiel, died. If you share your life with shorter lived species, you know that day will come. My immediate reaction is to swear never again - never another dog, cat, bird. It's not a vow I've ever kept. Living with a different species, especially those as intelligent and affectionate as dogs, cats, and cockatiels, adds immensely to life.

This is a blog about Mist's life, not her death. She was eleven years old, died very quickly, apparently painlessly, and Michael and I were both there. She was buried next to Frost, who died four years ago.

Mist and Frost were six weeks old when we got them. They were a brother and sister from the same hatching - home reared. Frost was male and very pale, almost white, grey. Mist was darker, the more common color among cockatiels, a soft mid-grey. Both had clipped wings when we brought them home. Mist's had been badly clipped, too close, and it took a long time for the flight feathers to grow out enough for her to feel confident in flying. Perhaps that initial experience in flying shaped her character - she was always a rather suspicious bird. She waited and watched before trying anything new.

Frost was more reckless and always the better flyer.

We never had their wings clipped again.

Frost was the talker. After we had them a few weeks, I went over to his cage and he said "Hello, pretty bird. Hello." He could say half a dozen phrases that I could understand and he talked constantly. He also whistled. He understood what he was saying, or at least he used the phrases appropriately - good enough for Turing, anyway.

Meegan was alive then, our pit bull terrier. When Meegan came into the room, Frost said, Hello, Meegan, pretty bird Meegan.

Meegan looked at the cage, furious. She recognized her name. She turned around and stalked out of the room. Meegan knew what talking was and tried to do it. She'd look intently and make sounds, dog sounds. She was jealous of the birds.

Once, I let the birds out and Meegan was in the room, stretched out on the sofa. Frost flew over and landed on Meegan's back and began walking up to her head. I was sitting by Meegan. Meegan remained immobile. I got Frost. Having a bird sit on your head really is an insult too far for a proud dog like a pit bull but she tolerated it. I never let the birds out when Meegan was in the room again. (And I was bloody stupid to have done it even once.)

Mist would never have landed on Meegan. Mist was the clever bird, an engineer bird. She didn't talk, she figured things out. One of her toys consisted of three wooden rings strung together on a chain. Mist spent a considerable amount of time figuring out how to use beak and foot to hang all three rings over another toy, a short branch, next to the rings in her cage. It was a two step solution: foot grasps ring and pulls it up to Mist on a perch, beak grasps ring from foot and loops over branch.

Mist knew how the cage door worked and could pull it up a bit, not enough to get out. If Frost had worked with her, they could have opened the cage door. Frost wasn't interested.

When the pair got out of the cage, Frost flew around: curtain rod to curtain rod, top of the book shelf, then he settled on my shoulder or head. (One of my bird books said never let the bird sit on your head: that shows dominance. So a two ounce creature thinks he is dominant over me: so what? If it makes him happy...)

Mist flew around, then settled with Michael. Inevitably, Michael would be working on his computer, a lap top. Mist would sit on his knee then dash forward to pop a key covering off the key board. One day, Michael was working and watching Mist to prevent this. Frost was walking on the floor, interested in the power supply. Michael looked down and saw that Frost had stripped the outer covering to the cord. He yelled, both birds flew back to their cage and huddled in the top most corner.

They loved to strip wires, proper little electrical engineers. We have a reclining chair, a comfortable chair that goes back with foot rest that comes up. The fat plastic covered wire connecting the chair control to the chair  has been stripped.

Mist was a fussy eater. She wanted fresh herbs, growing in dirt. I got the herbs from the local supermarket and she'd eat them, scratch in the dirt in the small pots. Cut herbs were no substitute - she ignored them. Basil was probably her favorite. When Safeway became Morrisons, she initially ignored the new, strange, different growing plants. She finally adapted to the change in supplier.

I brought the birds raspberries from the allotment. They threw them on the bottom of the cage and walked on them, bright red bird legs resulted. Mist liked scrambled eggs and bacon. She liked fresh pumpkin. She ignored any salad put in the cage.

She loved her cage. It was hers and she hated for hands to come in. Even if the hands were putting in potted plants. She'd run over and hit the intrusive hands with her beak. She never bit, but she would hit with the beak.

As she grew older, she grew less interested in leaving the cage. She would decide she wanted out. She'd walk back and forth on the perch in front of the door, squawking. Michael or I would open the door and hook it to stay open. She'd hesitate, then come out. She'd then walk around the outside of the cage, investigating. She had a cuttle bone, and used to eat it from the outside of the cage instead of inside. After investigating the outside of the cage, she flew to Michael or me.

She loved the X-Files - as did Frost. It was her favorite show, and when the X-Files music came on she'd squawk and run to the front of the cage where she could watch tellie. It wasn't simply familiarity; we watch Channel 4 news every day and she had no interest in that. She liked Strictly Come Dancing. I put BBC Radio 3, the classical station, on for her. One morning, she heard an organ for the first time on Radio 3. She got very excited, started beating her wings and ran to the front of the cage. She also liked jazz. She'd sing along. We have birds outside and they sometimes call and sing. Mist would answer. We brought a tape of birdsongs in Australia, and thought Mist would be fascinated. She wasn't, particularly.

Is it fair to keep birds in cages? Especially clever birds, like cockatiels. I think it is, as long as they have a chance to fly. A cockatiel in a cage lives much longer and has a healthier life, secure food, and safety: outside is a very unsafe place. I certainly don't think all cockatiels should live in cages, but an individual cockatiel may have a more satisfactory and longer life as a caged bird if the human in charge works at making the life satisfactory. I think the same is true of zoos. A zoo can be a satisfactory place for an animal to live, but it requires work on the part of the zoo keeper and an approximation, at least, of the natural habitat.

Mist saw her cage as her domain. The cage was two cages: a cockatiel cage on top of a parrot cage, about five feet vertically, to go up and down. She could open her wings and beat them, although flight was impossible. Normally, she spent about an hour a day outside the cage. Usually, she went back inside when she got hungry. Sometimes, we put her back in; she'd sit on a finger, finger would go in the cage. That was usually acceptable. A couple of times, she decided she wasn't going in and flew to a curtain rod from the finger. Mist felt in control of a lot of her life.

She had toys, rotated regularly since we bought her new toys frequently and the cage was too full with all of them. She had perches of different sizes, plus a couple of tree branches from the pet store, to exercise her feet. She had a flock - Frost, Michael, me, Meegan. After Meegan's death, for awhile Frost would call her: "Meegan? Meegan?". It was not a natural flock, but it was a collection of socially important individuals.

What do we get from companion animals, living with another species, pets? A respect for different kinds of intelligences. There is an intellectual satisfaction in learning more about the different ways the animals of the earth survive. Emotional satisfaction: bonding goes two ways. 

In the first couple of days after Frost's death, Mist spent much of the day sitting on Michael's shoulder, huddled under his hair, feathers ruffled. I asked the vet if we should get another bird. No, the vet said, she's mourning Frost. She misses him and another bird is no substitute.

So Mist was an individual. Her death reminds me of all the individual animals I've lived with and known that have died. I still miss Barney and Pippin and Meegan and Frost and Hasan. Not every day, but occasionally something will happen and I'll be reminded of them. That's all any creature has. Long life or short, we remain in the memories of those we love who loved us.