Some of My Friends Have Tails

by Sara Henderson

  His best trick was to sit in the plum tree right next to Court Number One, and have his fun. A point would be in progress and a very clear and official voice would break the silence of play. ‘Out!’

  All hell would break loose. ‘What do you mean out, it was in by a foot!’ All eyes would be on the umpire waiting for an explanation.

  ‘I didn’t call,’ would be the feeble reply.

  ‘Then who did?’

  Cocko got away with this for quite a while. He had the competition in an uproar.

  ‘Oh, good shot!’ would ring out, when the ball was two feet over the base line, causing bedlam, until the umpire would set the record straight by calling the ball out.

  Things would just settle down, and play would continue, then loud and clear, ‘Fault!’ would be called in the middle of a rally. Play would stop while the players argued with the umpire about calling a fault three strokes into a rally. The poor umpire would struggle to convince everyone he or she hadn’t called.

  The point would be replayed, the match would resume until, ‘Oh, bad luck, just missed!’ would be called on a ball six feet in the court; which would send all players on both sides into a riot.

  Cocko came undone during the mid-week ladies’ competiton, when he slipped up and called out a remark in a man’s voice.

  ‘That was a man’s voice!’ was the outcry. Mum was playing that day, and she immediately knew the culprit.

  ‘Cocko, where are you! Come here this instant!’

  Cocko sheepishly walked pigeon-toed down a branch of the plum tree, out from the cover of the leaves and into view. Putting a scrawny claw up to his beautiful crest, and unfurling it into a brilliant yellow fan, his head on the side, and one beady eye cocked in her direction, he asked, ‘How about a beautiful boy, then.’

  With the mystery of the phantom caller of Court Number One solved, competition tennis at Halcyon returned to normal. To achieve this, I was assigned the duty of locking Cocko in his cage on the sunporch every time competition tennis was on. This made us instant enemies. I was well and truly into my tennis career, and when I was supposed to be leaving for a match away from home, I would be up a tree or crawling over the roof trying to catch Cocko, who knew what day it was, and was not going to be caught.

  It became impossible to trap him; he would just fly away in the morning, and return when play was about to begin. To solve this problem, he was not let out of his cage on the mornings of competition tennis until play was over. When it was just social tennis with no umpire, he was quite a hit, sitting sometimes on the arm of the umpire’s stand, calling scores, making his remarks and laughing: ‘Oh, bad luck, old boy!’, or ‘Jolly good shot!’, or ‘I say, what a smash!’ and endless other remarks.

  Another problem developed when he started using some unsavoury expressions he picked up along the way. But a few well-aimed balls whenever he came out with a four-letter word soon made him realise that every time he said these words he would be knocked right off his perch. Eventually he was encouraged to drop them from his repertoire.

  He would yell, ‘Oh, sh—!’ and a white missile would knock him clean off his perch, or whistle close by. He would ruffle his feathers, then settle back after he regained his feet and his composure, and remark, ‘Oh, goodness!’ in a very alarmed voice.

  Cocko’s antics were not restricted to the tennis court area; he was very definitely a people’s bird and sought out company whenever and wherever possible.

  One of his favourite spots was the front garden at sunset, when all the people coming home from work would pass by. He would sit under the roof eaves, and as people passed, in the most friendly of tones, he would say, ‘Hullo, how are you!’

  The person would turn around searching, but find no-one.

  Sometimes Cocko wolf-whistled, and if a girl was passing, she would be mystified; if a man was walking behind her, he received a glare.

  Sometimes Poppa sat in the sun, and Cocko got him into embarrassing situations with a few wayward whistles. People just did not believe Poppa’s explanation: ‘It was the cockatoo!’

  After a few confrontations with irate mothers or fathers of girls whistled at, Poppa stopped sitting in the sun, or else made sure Cocko was locked in his cage.

  Because he roamed free and was always friendly, Cocko was stolen many times. But we always got him back. He set up an unholy, endless squawking screech, and would not stop night or day. Mum would advertise on the radio or in the local newspaper, offering a reward for information, and a sleepless neighbour usually dobbed in the culprit.

  The rescues followed a similar pattern. Mum arrived at the address, often with me in tow, sometimes with a brother or two. At the front door, the person would immediately say they thought the bird was wild, and had no idea it belonged to anyone.

  Then Mum would ask, ‘How could you think the bird is wild, when it talks like a threshing machine?’

  ‘Oh, this bird doesn’t talk, so it can’t be yours.’

  I would then call out, ‘Is that you, Cocko?’

  And he would start calling, ‘Sara, is that you, Sara, is that you, Sara,’ on and on non-stop.

  Mum then insisted we see the bird. On one occasion he was in a canary cage, and could hardly turn around; had to stand on the floor of the cage to have enough headroom. When he saw us, he went crazy. The door was so small my brother had to bend the bars so we could get him out. He latched onto my arm so tightly his claw marks drew blood. Mum was the only one he would release his grip for.

  The man actually had the hide to ask for money for the damage to his canary cage. When he was told by my brother that he was lucky he wasn’t wearing it on his head, he didn’t press the issue.

  Sometimes the person would insist it was their bird. But again, Mum just said, ‘Well, let him out of his cage and let’s see what he does.’ Every time, Cocko headed for Mum, ran up her arm, sat on her shoulder and kissed her cheek.

  Mum always ended the little charade by asking the person to take Cocko. If they were still fool enough to approach, Cocko would raise his comb, spread his wings, open his beak and make a hissing sound by sucking in air. He gave very clear and menacing signals that he would latch onto anything he could sink his beak into. After such performances we were free to take Cocko home. He soon realised he couldn’t go into any garden, and after being locked in canary cages, aviaries and toolsheds, he learned to stay high in the trees where he knew he was safe; but mostly he stayed in the trees in our garden, or only flew around the close neighbourhood where everyone knew him. Or he spent the day finding parts of the house he could chew.

  He always sought out Mum. This was done by going to the window of different rooms, and knocking on the glass, calling her; if the window was open, he would just walk in looking for her. He usually started with the kitchen; and there was one place other than the kitchen where he knew he could often find her: on the phone.

  Mum was president of the district Red Cross branch, and she spent a good deal of the day on the phone, arranging charity functions to raise money, or just organising and running the branch. So Cocko’s favourite pastime was to sit on the window near the phone and mimic Mum.

  He would loudly jabber non-stop, then pause and say some words like, ‘Oh really?’, in a very clear, animated voice, then back to the incoherent jabber, only to pause again and say, ‘Oh I agree,’ or ‘She didn’t!’, or ‘We’ll see about that!’

  Finally he would break into his song-and-dance routine. Mum had taught him to dance right from a young bird, and he was quite good. With wings spread, and raised crest, he tapped one foot while swaying his head back and forth, chanting a very flat, unmelodious ‘Da-Da-Da-Da’ up and down the scale, completely out of tune. It was very distracting, and made it impossible for Mum to carry on a normal conversation, and it wouldn’t be long before she threatened Cocko with terrible things, hand over the mouthpiece so the person on the other end of the phone wouldn’t be shocked. But it usually had to be physical action, and she’d eventual
ly have to chase him with the broom. Cocko didn’t like the broom; when it appeared he headed for the trees.

  It was at these times, just before the broom-swinging, that I would ask Mum’s permission to do something she usually wouldn’t allow. Almost always the reply would be, ‘Yes, but take Cocko with you and go away. I’m busy talking on the phone.’ I would wander off down the garden with Cocko sitting on my shoulder, still jabbering.

  He ruled the roost with the dogs and cat. They were not allowed in the house, and at mealtimes all stood at the door on the verandah waiting for their dinner. Sometimes the anticipation was too much, and one or all would quietly edge closer into the breakfast room, heading close to the kitchen. There they would sit and patiently watch Mum preparing their meal.

  Cocko sat on his perch, not moving a muscle until the dogs had passed him, then he swung into action. He was off the perch in a flash and in his peculiar pigeon-toed gait, he would advance across the floor, wings out, comb up, saying, ‘Get out! Naughty dogs! Out!’ He’d run his beak along the lino, and when he managed to come in contact with a paw, he would give it a sharp nip.

  Just the sight of him approaching sent the dogs and cat into a frenzy. There would be leaping and bounding, dancing on the spot, and some very nifty footwork to avoid the dreaded beak. But he was fast, and eventually a paw would land in range; the beak would pounce, and dogs and cat would head for the door in a tangled, yelping, yowling heap, finally realigning themselves at the door. Cocko would strut up and down the room in command until Mum carried the bowls outside.

  He tried the same game outside. But it was a different story there; that was their domain and many a time Cocko came through the door in a whoosh, half flying, half running, barely ahead of snapping teeth or flashing claws. It was a great game, and Cocko couldn’t wait for it to start every day.

  He also nipped any bare feet that happened to be walking around, and he had great fun with the boys. But the boys always got him back. They were often in trouble with Mum when they were young because of the pranks they played on Cocko.

  One year on Guy Fawkes Day, they gave Cocko a string of bungers, and while he curiously held the crackers in his scrawny claw and investigated with his beak, the boys lit them. Poor Cocko got such a fright he couldn’t let go, and stood there on one leg with the string of firecrackers going off in his beak and claw, jumping and squawking every time one went ‘bang’. Everyone was in stitches, even Mum, he looked so funny dancing up and down. He wasn’t hurt, but he was a very nervous bird for weeks after; he would just start jumping and squawking at any time of the day, sending everyone in fits of laughter again.

  The boys were punished and told never, ever again. So firecrackers were off-limits. The next time they got Cocko for toe-nipping was at Christmas. While Mum was busy preparing the turkey, they filled Cocko’s drinking glass with whisky. He liked the taste and in no time at all was rolling drunk. He was the night’s entertainment. Every time he lifted a foot to walk he fell over. He jabbered constantly, breaking into his song-and-dance routine, then he’d overbalance and roll right over on his back, then stagger to his feet again, only to repeat the whole routine. Mum put him on his perch and he fell off, rolling around on the floor, singing an even more unmelodious and off-key scale than usual, and squawking. You couldn’t shut him up. He went on for hours, and eventually perch and Cocko had to be moved out onto the porch so we could eat dinner in peace. He finally collapsed and fell asleep on the ground, leaning up against his perch.

  When Mum found out what the boys had done, they were in trouble again, big trouble this time. The vet told Mum, after examining a groaning, moaning cockatoo with a hangover, that he could have had a heart attack and died. All his antics that entertained us could have been a fit. The boys were punished suitably, and alcohol joined firecrackers on the forbidden list.

  Cocko was a great fundraiser. I spent my early childhood with Mum collecting money from door to door for the Red Cross. Mum would go down one side of the street, and Cocko and I, the other. We always got the most money.

  Cocko would say, ‘Hello’, and things like, ‘How about a bit of a scratch?’, and raise his wing; or, ‘How about a drink?’, which always got a good laugh. All in all, a professional performance; he would captivate the people and they, in turn, would donate generously to the Red Cross.

  When Cocko was around two years old, our Irish Setter had puppies, and although Mum called in the vet when things were not going along as normal, we lost her, and all the puppies except two. The vet said it was near impossible to raise Irish Setter puppies from birth without their mother, but we were willing to try, and all the children pitched in under Mum’s guidance. With Mum in charge of the formula, we all took turns at the night feedings which, in the first month, were hourly.

  There were a lot of bleary-eyed children walking around for weeks, but the puppies lived, including Lucky, who was the first puppy born under the house, and was there alone for two days before we found her and put her with the rest of the litter.

  We had the puppies in a box lined with warmed housebricks under covers, and hot water bottles wrapped in woollen material, so the puppies could snuggle up to something warm during the night, along with a ticking alarm clock to keep them company. One night they set off the alarm on the clock and scared the daylights out of themselves, and the whole household, in the early hours of the morning. It took hours to stop them yowling and to settle them down to sleep again.

  Cocko was very interested in the puppies, and a few times we found him in the box with them, gently stroking them with his beak. It was such a sight. At the time the pups were born, the tabby cat next door had kittens, yet again, and the kittens, yet again, were taken away—to homes elsewhere, all the children were told.

  The tabby cat’s name was Timmy: our neighbours thought their kitten was a boy, until she grew up and presented them with a litter of kittens. Despite being female Timmy’s name was never changed.

  When Timmy lost each litter of kittens, she would spend days wandering around meowing and looking for them. Mum suggested putting Timmy with the puppies. She took one look at the box of puppies and fled. But the next morning we found her squeezed in the box with the two pups, with them happily sucking away at breakfast, and Timmy eyeing off Cocko, who considered he was the puppies’ guardian and was perched on the side of the box, wings out, comb up, beak open, hissing. Timmy had her ears flattened, eyes large black holes, teeth bared, and was growling just loud enough for Cocko to hear, and keep his distance, but not loud enough to scare the pups.

  This Mexican standoff mellowed into a friendship as the days passed, and cat and bird came to accept each other. Cocko would climb onto the side of the box each morning with a hearty ‘Hullo’, and Timmy slowly came to accept him. After a month or so we actually found him in the box—puppies, cat and bird, all as happy as Larry, together.

  The Telegraph heard about a tabby cat raising two pedigree Irish Setter puppies with the help of a cockatoo, and sent a photographer out, and next morning there they all were on the front page of the newspaper.

  Within a few months, the pups were bigger than Timmy, and because they were only drinking from her back teats, she had such a bust it was difficult for her to walk. The pendulum effect of her large bosoms would knock her off her feet. She appeared punch-drunk when she tried to walk anywhere, and she couldn’t run fast enough to get away from the pups.

  The pups were so big by now that one would sit on Timmy so she couldn’t move, while the other pup had a drink. You could hear Timmy’s yowls, as the naughty pups waylaid her somewhere. Eventually Mum made her a bra to keep her bosoms from dragging on the ground, and to stop the pups from drinking. This tiny little tabby cat with a thirty-six-inch bustline strutted around wearing a green bra, or sometimes a floral one. But the situation became serious when her nipples got sore and were starting to split, it was even painful for Timmy when Mum rubbed on the healing ointment. So the floral and coloured bras saved the day, and
became a permanent fixture until the pups were weaned. Timmy’s bosom slowly reduced in size until she could walk in a normal fashion. The pups were soon lapping milk from a saucer.

  They grew into enormous dogs, and the amazed look on Timmy’s face as her offspring towered over her never faded. She cleaned them daily, but by the time they were six months old Timmy would work all day and she would still be only halfway down the side of one pup. When they were fully grown, their grooming consisted of licking their eyes and around their mouths; even that took most of her day.

  By this stage, Timmy was well and truly our cat. Each night you would find her curled up between the paws of one of her babies, purring proudly, with the dog’s head resting on her back. Even after years, you could look into the garden and see her cleaning Lucky’s face, with the other dog patiently waiting for its turn to be groomed.

  I often wondered what Timmy thought of her two ‘babies’. They would romp down the lawn to greet her, and you could see her cringe, expecting to be crushed, but even though they were awkward and gangly they never hurt Timmy. They loved her dearly, and she was clearly amazed at what she had produced, but also extremely proud. You could often see Timmy, Cocko and the two dogs sitting on the lawn, having a quiet moment together.

  One of the dogs eventually went to my uncle’s farm outside Canberra. The dogs had rapidly grown very big indeed, and needed lots of room for exercise, so Mum thought it best only to keep one. Of course all the kids were heartbroken, but Mum was right. So we kept Lucky, the first puppy born under the house.

  Of course, Cocko was a long-time resident, twenty-four years in all, and he continued his outrageous behaviour, always destroying or demolishing something or up to some kind of mischief. One of his favourite pastimes was scaring Mum’s visitors.