A Little White Bird

Our story with Moby began on the West Coast of the United States. My husband, Tony, and I were on a much needed vacation, part of which involved visiting his son in California and then touring the Oregon coast. The weather was warm and dry, and sunny every day. Much different from the cold and wet spring that we had left behind in New York.

When we departed, our dog, Charlie, had miraculously recovered from a near-death illness and was almost like his old, lovable, crazy self. But alas, it was on a rocky beach with waves crashing along the shore when we learned that Charlie had taken a terrible turn and needed to be put down.

Suddenly, the fun, carefree trip had turned sullen and filled with a sense of deep loss, our thoughts now about returning home to a much quieter house. The rest of the visit, while still somewhat enjoyable at times, was now shrouded in sadness.

Along the route to Portland, where we would catch a plane home, we stopped at antique and thrift stores, hoping to find some items either to keep as mementos or for me to sell. (I have a vintage online store.) At one of these shops, I found a lovely ceramic white bird, small with a creamy glaze and somewhat amorphous shape. For some reason, it spoke to my heart, and so for a couple of dollars, it was mine. Later that day, we took a stroll along the beach outside our B&B, and I picked up a piece of driftwood, which I attached as a base to the bird. This little creation, for some reason, gave me solace and a sense of peace.

Coming home was difficult. And that first week was the hardest. We kept Charlie’s bowls just as we had left them, his leash on the hook. His collar remained on the counter as a reminder of his irrepressible spirit. But we carried on as we all do when we lose a beloved pet, with the knowledge that our time with them was a gift.

About a week later, was a sunny day in May in upstate New York. Spring bulbs were in bloom, and the grass required mowing. Tony had just walked out the door to get the mower when he abruptly returned.

“There’s a white bird in the driveway,” he said.

I stopped folding a towel. “A white bird?” I replied. Other than the occasional egret and seagulls, we do not have white birds in upstate New York that I know of.

I peeked out the window, and indeed, there was a small white speck on the driveway, just bopping about. I rushed out the door without a moment’s hesitation.

Because I knew — I did — that this bird was a starling. It was later that evening, after we had secured a small cage, given the little fledgling some food, and tucked it in for the night that I remembered the bird figurine I had found on our trip. I picked it up off the coffee table. The resemblance to our new friend was uncanny. It was at that moment that I knew the universe had worked its magic. Moby had found a home. And we had received the most wonderful gift, right when we needed it the most.