January 9, 2011
The black cockatoos are back here for their annual visit, their high-pitched call heralding their arrival. They sound different from their white cousins who have more of a screech, but they are still loud enough to wake you in the morning. There is a plaintive note to their cry and I always enjoy catching a glimpse of them wheeling in the sky before they move on to wherever they go for the rest of the year.
My cousin used to have a neighbour with a pet cockatoo that was a good mimic. My aunt must have spent a lot of time standing on the back porch calling her son’s name, for the cocky soon took up the task and often called out his name, with the same intonation, only scratchier. And then there was Aunty Kate’s budgie with the goiter which scared me as a child whenever we dropped in for a visit. I have had a bit of a love-hate relationship with birds ever since Alfred Hitchcock…