The first pet my husband and I ever had together was a pure white cockatiel. Not an albino, her eyes were black, and her feathers all creamy white except for a few pale grayish bands on the underside of her tail. We named her Anya.
My husband, who had then not yet changed his status from ‘lover’ to ‘spouse,’ bonded with her immediately. He absolutely adored Anya, the cockatiel who was small for her age. She was given a spacious cage and several different toys, and eventually a small budgie named Nimue to keep her company. But, although beautiful, Anya was a bird of very little brain. She loved to cuddle and give kisses and be scratched on her little feathered head – but never understood why exactly we insisted on hanging brightly colored objects in her cage or why we sometimes put her on a small wooden play-gym. She was happy just to be wherever we were (or more correctly, my lover/husband was).
Anya’s daddy, being an overly devoted father, fashioned up a small camera so we could watch our little darling baby from our computers while we were away at work. Naturally, we had to proudly show off our online pictures of the precious little one to our friends - one of whom, Mike, responded one day by saying, “oh my god! The bird! The bird is dead!”
Mikey’s statement had my heart pounding, even though I happened to be sitting at home at that moment and looked over and saw for myself that Anya was alive and well and climbing around her cage aimlessly. As I looked at her she squawked, as if to say (in her toneless, unsophisticated song) ‘what is it, mom?’ Mike’s next statement was words to the effect of “just kidding, guys – but I couldn’t resist.” Usually Mike was a very laid-back individual, but occasionally he showed a biting wit that could take you by surprise. Several years later, Mikey reminded us of his joke, and we laughed and I admitted he had actually given me a scare – even though at the time I could see Anya was alive and well with my own eyes.
Recently, I had a long dream about Anya dying. I was playing with her and had left the window open. It was freezing outside and the silly bird flew out the window and I lost her. It was snowing and the sky and the air and the ground were all white, making her impossible to see. I ran outside and looked for her and searched all through our neighborhood calling for her but still couldn't find her. Then, in my dream, I went into the city and I finally found her - she was in a gutter along the street and had died, frozen. The street was dirty and the water she was lying in was mucky and black but she still looked lovely and white, except her eyes were closed. I was heartbroken. And didn’t know how I would ever tell my husband, because I knew he would feel even more miserable than I felt.
I had my dream on January 25th, 2004 – Mike’s 29th birthday. (We had just celebrated with him two days before, and - since some of us are turning 30 this year – joked about what a youngster he was.) I never told anyone about it, because the images from the dream left such a horribly sad feeling in my soul I couldn’t imagine sharing the story with others. One week and one day later, Mike was killed in an automobile accident while heading home, into the city. It was snowing heavily, turning the sky and the air ghostly white and the pavement black and slushy. Another driver slammed into Mike’s car, causing him to spin out and crash into a semi parked on the side of the road.
I don’t want to call my dream an omen, or a premonition, or anything that would indicate that I believed it to be a warning of impending doom. It was just a stupid, sad dream about the loss of a much-loved pet. Additionally, I don’t want to suggest a direct comparison between Mike and Anya – one was (and still is – she is climbing around her cage aimlessly as I write this) a beautiful, addle-brained cockatiel. The other was a long-time friend, as loyal, caring, good-tempered and big-hearted a person as I have ever had the pleasure to know.
Michael Adam Massing was taken from this world too soon. In life, I don’t know if he could possibly have been aware of how many people he touched – and how much beauty he brought into our world. Mikey could be counted on to offer you either an attentive ear, an enveloping hug, or a hearty laugh when ever you needed one. In return, he seemed to be never happier than when he was in the presence of those he loved. I am honored to think that such a person called me a good friend.
Wherever you are now, Mikey, I take the liberty of thinking that you are still able to see us and know what we are going through without you. I hope that your spirit can help to guide us through the process of adapting to life absent of you. I keep waiting for someone to tell me, “just kidding guys – but I couldn’t resist” and that your death has been an elaborate joke, or perhaps a dream. But in the bottom of my stomach I know that this is not the case, and that your death is as cold and frozen a reality as I’ve ever faced.
We love you, Michael. We always will. Thank you for every smile you ever gave us – though they were many, they were still not enough.
- Amy