Away with the Birds

 Regular readers of these missives will know that I don’t have a great fondness for animals. I like eating them of course and I’ve sometimes taken pleasure in watching them race each other. But caring for them as living sentient beings has always been beyond me. If truth be told, as I progress into grumpy middle age, I find that I’m not even fond of most humans.

So, the events of the last month have taken me by surprise. It started on a balmy Saturday night. Spring had uttered a chesty cough and finally woke after a long slumber. We’ve had the wettest winter in Auckland since records started, so when the sun finally returned, we broke out the deck chairs and encamped onto our deck.   

As I relaxed with a refreshing APA in hand, I noticed something on the back wall of our house. There, on a light fitting about three metres from the floor was a bird’s nest. It seemed to me that it had been constructed that day, but if truth be told, they might have been at it for months. It was an intricate design of interwoven twigs that seemed to conform to all the relevant building codes within the bird world.

The only thing it was missing was a resident. We wondered if it had been built and then abandoned after the birds realised how many cats live in our neighbourhood. But the next day, we heard some cheeping and found a fat, female blackbird perched majestically on top. I should point out that I know as much about ornithology as I do about nuclear physics.  My wife was the one who made the identification, including the important fact that female blackbirds are not actually black. They are brown.

She was wrong on one important matter though. She reckoned we were watching solo parenting. That blackbirds were like bawdy sailors, arriving into a different town each week, knocking up the ladies and then high-tailing it (if you’ll excuse the pun) whenever an egg appeared.

Some loud chirping the next day disproved this theory. Daddy blackbird (who is indeed black) had made a grand entrance and wanted to let everyone in the neighbourhood know of his arrival. It became clear that his visits were to allow his partner to temporarily leave the nest and seek out food. When this happened, he rarely came to the twiggy home itself. He would perch on a fence nearby, keeping a wary eye on the neighbourhood cats and presumably letting the other birds know to stay away. Once Mammy had returned with a full belly, he would leave without so much as a farewell cheep.

Things changed when the kids arrived. We noticed a couple of tiny, nervous beaks peeking out of the nest, arching their necks whenever Mam came back with food. At this point, Dad became a bit more hands-on. He stays with the nest now when Mam is out feeding and often arrives with a couple of tasty worms that he shares with the family.

What surprises me most is how interested I am in all this. Our neighbour’s cat came for a visit and I found him climbing on our garden furniture and making a beeline for the nest. I immediately grabbed a broom and raced outside with murderous intent. The cat got the message and high-tailed it back home. I then rearranged the furniture to make access more difficult.

My wife and I now regularly check on the birds. She has started leaving out food for them which they studiously ignore. These are strong, independent hunters, well able to feed themselves from the bounty in our garden. My daughter is less enamoured. She is a cat lover and hates the way we portray them as potential chick killers. This has caused a rift in the house based on which side of nature you want to prevail. Cats are not native to New Zealand and they kill millions of local birds each year. Most native New Zealand birds evolved to be ground dwellers and never expected a moggy to arrive on a boat from England and trap them in their greedy paws.

My daughter, who is far too smart for her age, has pointed out that blackbirds are also not native. Somebody in the 19^th century thought it would be a great wheeze to bring all sorts of fauna to New Zealand. Why they wanted to bring blackbirds is anyone’s guess. Perhaps they snuck onto one of the early ships.

I don’t know the long journey their ancestors took, but I’m glad that this couple of birds made it to my deck. It’s wonderful to watch them interact, take care of their offspring and to bring new life into our lives. I should also acknowledge that as pets go, they are very low maintenance. They don’t need feeding or watering, don’t leave hairs all over furniture and you don’t have to carry a small plastic bag to pick up their pooh.

But of course, they are not pets. They carry on as though we don’t exist. Somehow, they know we are not a threat and that the cats are. We just happen to be the people who live in the house they have chosen to stay at this year. When the chicks are old enough, they’ll fly the coop and the parents will move on to their summer homes. If they survive the cat apocalypse, there is every chance they’ll be back next spring to start the process off again.

And so the wheel of life keeps turning. My job now is to see those chicks off into the new life. I’ll keep shoeing the cat away and keep an eye out for that first nervous step out of the nest. Apparently, this is a high-risk time. If that first flutter of wings doesn’t work, then they’ll fall three metres to their death. I can’t even contemplate that thought. But I’ll keep you updated.