Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [79]
‘She needs more distractions,’ stated Lucy.
‘I’ve been through all that with Mrs Smethurst,’ I said. ‘Short of another bird as a companion … hey, maybe that’s the answer.’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ warned Lucy.
I shrugged. ‘Shouldn’t worry. It’s highly unlikely, as cockatoos don’t come cheap.’
‘No, they come bloody squawking,’ complained Lucy, stuffing her fingers in her ears as Liza let rip again – this time alarmed by the sight of a lion stalking across the TV screen.
It was barely a week later when Major flew into our lives. A client from another practice heard I was a ‘bird man’ and phoned to ask if I’d be interested in taking on her cockatoo. I went round to see the bird.
‘Does Major … er … squawk?’ I asked, standing in front of the cage. He had been suspiciously quiet since my arrival.
‘Very rarely,’ said the lady and went on to explain that Major had been her son’s but now that he’d left home there was no one to devote time to the bird.’
‘Doesn’t feather pluck I see.’ Major had a full compliment of smart, white feathers and a fine sweep of a yellow-tipped crest.
‘No, he’s got no vices,’ said the lady vaguely. ‘Nothing to speak of that is.’
Well, there was a vice … a vice not mentioned … a vice only discovered when I got Major home.
We were in the kitchen when a commotion erupted from the sitting room. It sounded like someone beating the hell out of a tin kettle.
‘What on earth’s that racket?’ said Lucy almost dropping the eggs she’d been taking out of the fridge. I ran in to investigate.
For once, Liza was actually quiet, watching Major, her two remaining crest feathers raised in bewilderment. He, on the other hand, was creating the noise, ramming his beak into his food hopper, beating it against the sides like some demented pop group’s drummer.
‘Perhaps that’s why he’s called Major,’ said Lucy, when she came through.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Drum Major,’ she explained as the cockatoo beat another tattoo in his hopper, scattering sunflower seed in all directions.
But Major hadn’t finished yet. He looked up as if to make sure we were watching and then launched himself forward from his perch while still hanging on. The momentum in his dive allowed him to flip under the perch and haul himself back up the other side using his beak. He was like a Catherine wheel. A spinning blur of white; a real comic turn. Quite amazing.
It was a trick that subsequently never failed to make us smile, especially on those occasions when it didn’t quite come off and he was left swinging backwards and forwards, clinging to his perch upside down.
Liza chose to ignore this new joker and, after that initial silence, returned to her daily torrent of screeches directed solely at us.
Still, I put their cages side by side for a week and then decided to put the birds together, but in a new cage.
‘Why a new one?’ queried Lucy.
‘Bit of psychology,’ I explained. ‘Meeting on new territory should help to lessen any aggression between them. There, look at that.’
Having been put in with Major, Liza had now run up to him, her remaining crest feather raised, her beak giving a friendly click-click. ‘They’re making friends already.’
But Major wasn’t having any of it; he huddled up against the side of the cage, his strident hiss making it clear he had no wish for flirtations from his Antipodean sister, already undressed, flaunting her naked flesh at him.
That night, each bird roosted at opposite ends of the perch. We were woken at 5.00am by our own dawn chorus of screeches emanating from the sitting room.
‘Now what?’ moaned Lucy, burying her head under the pillow while her heel, planted firmly in the small of my back, ensured I was ejected to investigate.
Liza ran along the perch to give me a bob, her right wing dripping blood. Huddled at the other end sat Major, the picture of innocence, except his beak was smeared with red.
The wound wasn’t serious – a nick in the skin – so I decided to risk leaving the birds together – a foolish move. Another commotion