The rust-bird of happiness has ruined everything

Pam Burke

We ought to just call the vet and have me put down and out of misery, give me the long sleep goodnight — now that I don't have anything else to live for, it seems like the humane thing to do.

It's a tragic tale.

I was going along breathing in and out just fine and then my husband took a photograph of the bird that's been eluding our identification for almost 20 years. Now look at me. I'm directionless.

Afloat in a sea of life rendered moot (as in deprived of all practical significance) because the epic and legendary not-a-coocoo (as in, I don't know what that bird is, but we've...