The other inhabitant of that double-wide trailer Dad and I were living in that summer was a pet cockatiel named Lucky. Dad loved this bird and that bird loved Dad. He’d open her cage each morning and let her fly around the trailer, she’d roost on his shoulder while he walked around, and perch on his forearm while he petted her. He talked to Lucky. Lucky talked to him.

We only put Lucky back in her cage at night to sleep. The rest of the time, Lucky was loose in the trailer morning until night. The only rule was, you had to “watch it” when you exited or entered the door so Lucky didn’t get out.

One late afternoon, after a July day of exploring the countryside on foot, I got back to the trailer at the same time Dad got home from work.

When we got inside, Lucky wasn’t there to greet Dad like she always did. We looked all over. No Lucky. Shit, I thought, did I accidentally let her out this morning when I left? Did anyone else come over today when we were gone?

Seconds later, I heard Dad in the back of the trailer, “Oh god. Oh god, nooo, Lucky.”

I ran to the back and found Dad on his knees leaning over the toilet. There, floating in circles in the bottom of it, was Lucky. Tears dripping off his cheeks, Dad reached with both hands into the bottom of the bowl and gently cradled Lucky out. “Oh, no Lucky, nooo,” he groaned through sobs. Lucky was dead. Soaking wet. Motionless. She must have accidentally fallen into the toilet and gotten stuck beneath the seat’s edge while trying to get out.

Dad still weeping, brought Lucky’s soggy and lifeless body closer to his face where he examined her hanging head. Then, he opened his mouth wide and slowly put Lucky into it until the bottom half of her wings and her tail feathers were all that was outside it. He started to give Lucky mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Only breathing through his nose so to keep constant airflow into her lungs, he made sure his breath was measured, enough, he hoped, to revive her, but not so much to burst her tiny lungs. On his knees, over a toilet, cradling the bottom half of a cockatiel named Lucky with the top half of the same bird in his mouth, he breathed into her with the perfect amount of pressure. One exhale … Two exhales … Three exhales. His tears soaking the already saturated bird. Four exhales … Five … A feather quivered. Six exhales … Seven … A wingtip fluttered. Eight … Dad lightly loosened his grip and released some pressure from his lips. Nine … Another wing tried to flap. He opened his mouth slightly wider. Ten … And that’s when we heard, coming from inside my father’s mouth, a small chirp. Now, with tears of pain turning to tears of joy, Dad gently removed Lucky’s torso and head from his mouth. Lucky twitched some toilet water and saliva off her head. Now face-to-face, they looked into each other’s eyes. She was dead. Now she was alive. Lucky lived another eight years.