Bird Brains

Corky; photo by Ralph Marshall

Dad lived in a small apartment set on the side of a hill. On the high hill side was a deck, much like a tree-house. A glass door opened onto it, and opposite the door - so she had a good view out - was a large cage in which resided Corky, the African Grey Parrot.

Corky was a one-man bird. She’d let my father put her upside-down on his lap for a claws and flight-feathers trim, and she’d climb his chair to sit beside him to watch tv.  She’d happily step onto Dad’s finger to get a ride to an outdoor cage - a delicious taste of the wild on fine days. Everyone else she bit - hard. It was possible to handle her if you pretended to be Dad when you did it, but she wasn’t fooled for long, once you forgot who youwere supposed to be. Dad used to say that children and dogs do what you expect them to do; apparently that’s true for birds, too, because we all expected to get bitten, and usually did - and he didn’t expect to get bitten, and rarely did. 

Like most African Greys, Corky was a great mimic of noises: the microwave beep, the dryer beep, the door bell, the alarm clock, the stove timer, the smoke alarm – whatever was most likely to get the humans hopping about. She knew many sentences and applied them appropriately: “Going shopping?” she’d ask as Dad got ready to go out; “Wanna go pee?” to the dog who visited from next door; “Want supper!” when it neared suppertime and “Want cake!” when it was time for dessert; “Here kitty, kitty, kitty!” to the wild birds she met beyond her outdoors cage, and “Time for bed!” when she was ready for her cage to be covered up at night. Once in the dusky privacy of her covered cage, she’d spend the next half hour practicing new words or phrases or snatches of songs, which she’d not use in public until she’d perfected them to her own standards. 

Dad’s relationship with Corky, and hers with him, was complex and nuanced. When he was dying, and no longer able to care for her, she was more co-operative with the rest of us, and would waddle down the hall to his bedroom, where she’d stand next to the bed, peering up at him. “Whacha doin’?” she’d ask. Just before he passed, she went to live with a lady who had other exotic birds; I heard through the perch-network that Corky is having a fine time.

Our human minds long to wrap themselves around bird’s alien perceptions. My Nana kept parakeets, which she’d let out of their cages to take joyous baths in a basin of water she’d place on the kitchen sink drainboard. She trained one to ride in a toy train that she’d pull about the house by a string, and that bird seemed to enjoy his rides tremendously, oddly choosing it over a free-flap about the house.  

Wild birds don’t pay much attention to we two-legged wingless critters, but there are curious exceptions. Buzzy Boy the hummingbird interacts with us daily during the season, is interested in what we’re doing, and has clear ideas about what we should be doing. Buzzy distinguishes between us and visitors – he dive-bombs us vigorously for attention, but never attacks strangers. After Buzzy said goodbye before migrating south last fall, I left the feeders out for stragglers migrating from further north who might need a fast food take-out joint on their long trek. After a few days, a small female arrived who hung about for several days. She, too, would hover near our faces when we came out to the deck, clearly interested in what we were doing. While she wasn’t as bold as Buzzy Boy, she reminded me of him so strongly that I have to wonder whether she’s his daughter, and whether we’ll see her again come fall.

Years ago I was in my driveway practicing t'ai chi while the First Hound lounged in the shade near the front stoop (keeping a careful eye out in case marauding dogs came to attack me). Concentrating on keeping my balance on uneven ground, I looked up from my feet directly into the face of a great blue heron that was watching me. I stared, amazed; in a moment, a look I can describe only as complete bewilderment passed over the bird's face. It gave itself a little shake, then took flight - thinking, I imagine, "What on earth were you doing with that human? Are you insane?" I turned to the First Hound, who was staring intently at the spot the bird had just left, thinking, "What on earth were you doing, why didn't you chase that bird? Dog, that was a big bird..."

Some birds – it can be hard to say why they find us fascinating. The chiropractor whose office is next to mine in White River was recently adopted by a beautiful, shining black pigeon. She stands on the windowsill outside his treatment room and spends a good part of the day watching him work. She seems especially interested when one of his patients calls out during an adjustment: she stretches her neck and hops a bit so she can get a better view. She’s tame enough to approach within inches from the other side of the window glass; she has beautiful purple and green hues mixed into her ebony feathers, and strawberries and cream feet. She never comes to my next-door acupuncture office window – watching me stab people with needles as they drift off into a nap is apparently too boring to be a spectator sport. 

Last summer Niece and the Chef adopted a small flock of hens. One beaked lady quickly became enamoured of my eldest grandniece. She follows the little girl around the yard, much like a puppy would, and tolerates being handled - a lot - by the 4-year-old. Grandniece sits on the back steps, the hen hops up onto her lap and lies there on her side - apparently relishing rubs and scratches and pats – and listens attentively as Grandniece talks and talks to her.

Do birds wonder about us as much as we wonder about them? Do they know we dream, sometimes, of flying? Do they suspect that their morning songs and their evening murmurs change our moods? Do they know we watch their aerial dances with fascination and wonder?

Do they know that, when they pass overhead on a perfect, still day, and we can hear each beat of their wings in the air above us, our breaths catch, and our hearts swell?

Originally published in the Concord Monitor, April 2, 2017, as “What Do the Birds Make of Us?”.