Hi All,
How was your week?
Mine was full of uni work (putting together a PowerPoint presentation for assessment for the first time since 2005) and editing a piece that will be published on Monday. Stay tuned!
Finally, I’m writing about the birds. So here we go:
I have a clear memory of being around eight or nine and being asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. This was around the age when long words and spelling were my forte, so I replied, “an ornithologist”. I knew even then that it would make me look smart, because, for some reason, adults didn’t know specific words. They couldn’t remember dinosaur names. They called it a “thing” when I knew it was a “boom-gate”. So I waited to be asked what an ornithologist was and I replied, “Someone who studies birds”.
It was true, too. My parents had bought a heavy, atlas-sized book on Australian bird species, with full colour photographs and detailed information about each one. I loved it. I think this was soon after my petition to get a sulphur-crested cockatoo, which, I imagined, would stay on my shoulder throughout the day, saying things I’d teach it, being my sidekick and best friend. I was too young and cockatoos lived too long for this to be feasible, so my parents bought me two cockatiels, instead.
Enter the most regretful years of my childhood. With the birds came the expectation I would clean their cage regularly and feed and water them daily. Unsurprisingly, I lost interest quite quickly, especially since they were kept in a big cage and I couldn’t play with them. Or, I didn’t know how at that age. Eventually, mum took care of them herself, and not without a frequent reminder of how I’d have to learn responsibility one day.
The story of the cockatiels didn’t end well, either. We moved house and kept them in a sizeable aviary along the fence of our neighbour’s backyard. This neighbour was a raging alcoholic and soon complained about the birds’ squawking in the morning. There wasn’t much we could do about it, but there was something she could. Slowly, over a period of months, the birds mysteriously died.
My mum and I were sad, but secretly relieved that one of my indulged whims had come to an end. Still, I had the bird book, and I memorised almost every page. Names of birds stuck and my desire for a bird friend remained intact. Unfortunately, along came high school biology and I realised that my brain didn’t have the patience or interest to pursue the ornithological dream of my childhood. Besides, by then I wanted to be a writer, actor, director, whatever creative, darling.
Max and I bought the bird feed before any birds came. I’d read the book The Birds at My Table and ascertained that feeding wild birds sparingly would be okay. We thought that by putting the feed out the birds would come. When they didn’t, the box of lorikeet feed (a faux-pollen mix) was shelved.
We’d forgotten about it when the first pair of rainbow lorikeets landed on our balcony one Saturday in Autumn last year. I managed to get the feed out onto the balcony table without them flying away and from then on we developed a relationship with the wild urban parrots.
At first, we were only visited by one pair. I memorised their colourings and any distinguishing features. And then, when Spring arrived, they were gone.
This year, word got out and pair after pair alighted on our balcony demanding to be fed. It was like they’d got wind of the pandemic and saw that able-bodied humans were around a lot more. The box of feed that had lasted almost two years was soon depleted and the replacement was emptied soon after. Every morning at 8am the screeching would start, and, depending on the pair, would continue during feeding. Lorikeets are very territorial, and some more so than others. One pair was especially vocal and aggressive and I called them “the bullies”. I could recognise them because the more subdued of the two had a shortened upper bill. But then one day they were gone, too.
Other pairs fought for balcony superiority, but in the absence of the bullies, things were mostly congenial. Some pairs even shared the table with others. During this time, however, a rogue single lorikeet became a bit of a wildcard. Its demeanour reminded me of the “criminally insane” robot in Futurama whose personality revolved around stabbing. It was not friendly with anyone, not even me, the hand that fed it.
Then, one day, the bullies were back and I had to eat my words. They’d brought their baby with them, and we got to see the awkward fluffiness of a 60-day-old lorikeet. In retrospect, I think they were so territorial because they were feeding a chick and wanted to know the food source would still be there when it was big enough to leave the nest.
Image: the bullies and their baby (middle). Note its black eyes, whereas an adult has red ones.
Image: FEEED MEEEE — chick gets fed
The next milestone occurred when one of the bolder lorikeets perched on my hand while I was trying to fill their food bowl.
I felt like I’d truly been blessed.
In the middle of Winter, when Sydney’s usual perfumery of pollen disappears completely, things got a little out of hand. Up to 14 birds would land on the balcony, or in the trees next to it, jostling to be fed. Max was disconcerted, but I was thrilled. Day by day, the birds got a little less fearful of me and certain ones would gladly eat from my hand.
I didn’t name any of them, except the bullies, because I don’t like the idea of getting attached to wild creatures. All of them were called “Rainbow Fluffy Boots” because they all have very fluffy rainbow boots on. I did have my favourites, though, and that was based on how cheeky they were. My favourite thing to watch was when the pairs just sat side by side, keeping each other warm, just hanging out on our balcony with us.
A few weeks ago, when Spring awakened the flowers, the number of lorikeets that came started to dwindle. Around the same time, the currawongs suddenly became bastards, dive-bombing the lorikeets off the balcony for no other reason than to chase them. The currawongs never stay on the balcony and are not interested in the lorikeets’ food or water.
Eventually, the lorikeets stopped coming. The parks and trees around the city are full of pollen right now. I guess it’s good to know that the faux-pollen feed isn’t as good as the real thing.
I’m a little sad that lorikeet season is over for us, but I’m looking forward to next year. It’s nice to have had some redemption for the lack of interest I paid the poor cockatiels as a kid. It’s nice not to have to clean the mountain of shit the lorikeets leave on the balcony, too.
Alrighty, some things of interest:
The White Australia Policy lives on today | by Behrouz Boochani
Japan’s problem of men who locked themselves away and the ‘rental sisters’ who help them:
How Do Arabic Nations Teach The Crusades?
Distributing the COVID Vaccine: The Greatest Logistics Challenge Ever
Thanks a lot for reading! Please share if you think anyone would be interested.
Until next time!