When I was about four and a half years old, I got my first pet. She was a blue parakeet, whom we named Sweetie. Since I was still quite young, I had yet to discover the responsibilities for the caring of a delicate creature.

Quite frankly, Sweetie wasn’t particularly a sweetie. The little tyrant of a bird bit us (by “us” meaning my mom, dad, and I), squawked loudly, and never respected us at all. I still feel bad about what I did, though…

It was a normal bright, sunny day in Danville, California. My mother was busy outside working in the yard, while I was stuck inside with nothing of interest to do. I decided to go check up on Sweetie, maybe play on the floor with her a bit. When Sweetie spotted me in the room, she screeched and rustled her feathers. Not too gently, I grabbed her out of the cage and put her on the floor. I can’t quite recall what sort of a game I was playing with her, but I suppose it was a very rough game, because before I knew it, I was looking down at a dead parakeet.

Sweetie had let out a final squeak before she died- this I remember clearly- and lay still. Her face looked peaceful, even though her last moments of life must have been terrifying. I stared in disbelief at my departed pet’s body.

I was a murderer at the age of four and a half. Tears made their way down my reddening cheeks in little streams and dripped on her lifeless form. After a few minutes of grieving, I started thinking. What was I going to do? It was all my fault that Sweetie had died. I had to think of a lie- an ingenious lie that would explain the death of our parakeet. Once I had it in my head, I hurried over to my mom.

My mom was in the living room, relaxing after a hard day’s work outside. I rushed up to her and told her in a shaking voice- not at all fake; I was still very shocked- that the bird was dead. My mom stared at me in alarm, and I held up the tiny feathered body. She burst into tears once she saw Sweetie (my mom was very fond of birds and had grown attached to the little parakeet). After a few moments of sniffling, she asked how it happened. The time to lie was now- it was inevitable.

Quickly, I told her my “elaborate” lie. Sweetie had been run over by the door. I couldn’t tell my mom the truth, I just couldn’t. I couldn’t tell her how I had played too roughly with the bird and had killed her myself, even if it was by accident. It would break Mom’s heart to know that her child was an A-class criminal.

My mom grieved the rest of the week for the little parakeet. I did too, though not only for Sweetie but for myself as well. Would God punish me? I had killed. Not only that, but I had lied also. I couldn’t stop beating myself up mentally for causing this pain. But I wouldn’t tell the truth.

Many months later, maybe six, I couldn’t take the guilt anymore. My mom was working out in the yard, when I ran to her, crying uncontrollably. Speaking in sobs and gasps, I told her the truth. How I had killed Sweetie, even though I didn’t mean to. My mom didn’t say anything at first; she just embraced me and rocked me slowly back and forth. Finally, she told me that she wasn’t mad at me at all, she was just glad that I had told her the truth. Life went on in peace…

I never thought that this event would stay in my mind to this day, even though this was one of the most tragic things that occurred in my young life. There is something greatly disturbing about taking a life, be it human or a little parakeet. Even though this is an awful memory for me to have it has benefited me in ways I never knew it would. My relationships with my pets have greatly strengthened from this incident; I am no longer foolish child but a mature pet owner. Sometimes the best lessons you can learn, are the most difficult to live with.