Cockatoo Herd

This story was inspired by the Wingtags Project.

It was 8pm and the sun was fading, one of those long summer days. I was in a window seat at my usual café, watching the sun as it dipped into the horizon. A majestic tree stood proudly in the foreground, its silhouette distinctly marked. The branches stuck out at all angles like wild currents. Perched on those branches were the silhouettes of cockatoos, their crests extended forwards as they congregated together. It started with a couple, but they were quickly joined by an exponentially increasing amount: four, seven, then a dozen. Now every piece of real estate on every branch was taken up.

That was the first time I noticed them. Usually they were part of the general scenery and that was it. I’d chuckle absentmindedly at their shenanigans on telephone lines, or press my pillow against my ears in protest against their crazed morning screeches. This, though. This was different. There was something eerie about the sight. I could hear their distant commotion and as I sat witnessing the tree, cockatoos would depart and be replaced immediately by others. It was like each bird was briefed and would then fly out to carry out its part of the plan. I must be going crazy. Cockatoos don’t hatch plans.

My gaze returned to my coffee and I took a sip. Cold and gross. I pulled back my chair with a halting screech in symphony with the birds, and left the café. My backpack swung side to side off one shoulder.

Outside, the streets were empty. No wonder, it was a dreary suburb on a weeknight. I went down a main road and took an abrupt turn into an alley. Unfortunately, this dodgy alley was the quickest way back to my apartment, next to the train station. It was dodgy because it was also a shortcut for the hooligans who jumped the fence on to the train line armed with spray paint.

I was finishing a sandwich from the café as I approached the back entrance to my apartment. A row of red-lidded bins stood to the left of the entrance in their assigned concrete cubicles. I jumped as I caught sight of a shadow skulking on top of one of the bins. Squinting in the dark, I slowly made it out to be a cockatoo. It peered at me with those beady, comical eyes, then went back about its business. I could see it was trying to wrench open the lid of the bin. Unsuccessfully. For some reason, I was rooted to the spot. Maybe because of my earlier experience with the ethereal silhouette of the majestic tree and its spread of shadows.

Finally, the cockatoo gave up and looked at me again. More specifically, at the sandwich in my hand. I knew it wanted it. I’d have totally ignored a bird longing for my meal on any other day, but tonight, for some reason, I considered it. And then decided against it by a very small margin. Hesitatingly, I started taking steps towards my apartment, my feet inexplicably heavy. I have a funny intuition, the kind that others scoff at but you know to be true. It kicked in now, and warned me seconds before it happened: the bird swooped at me. I ducked and it squawked in disappointment as it missed the sandwich by an inch.

I straightened up and ran for the entrance door. One hand on the doorknob, I fumbled for my keys with the other. Back jean pocket? No. Front? No. Then with a sudden chill, I remembered a distinct “clang!” when I had ducked out of the way of that dastardly bird. I looked over my shoulder and groaned. The cockatoo was clenching the keys in its beak.

“Hey, those are mine!” I yelled.

My voice rapidly weakened. Why was I negotiating with a bird? It flapped its wings, threatening to fly away with my only means of access to the sweet serenity of home.

I paced, wondering what to do. Then, the cockatoo was joined by others. One by one, they flew on to the lids of bins. One, two… five in total. Then they started issuing a guffawing noise too similar to a laugh. I got mad. I wasn’t studying mechanical engineering and juggling two jobs alongside it only to be laughed at by a gang of birds.

Maybe it was the exhaustion and frustration that got to me. I charged towards them. Only one retreated to the back row of bins to maintain our original distance. The others cocked their heads at it judgmentally. 

The original bird, the bird with the keys set stubbornly in its beak, peered at me gleefully. It shook its head back and forth, clacking the keys almost musically. After darting the first few steps, I had slowed my paced and now inched forwards. As the distance between us nearly closed, the bird suddenly flew up and over me, and I felt something wet in my hair. I let out a noise of disgust, and I heard a second round of guffaws from the gang all around me.

I was tired. I really was. And this was an insane predicament. It was the 21st century, most of my peers were struggling with their social media profiles, not wild birds. I sighed and looked down. Somehow, through all of this, my sandwich was still clutched firmly in one hand. Should I…hand it over? No, surely it won’t work. And besides, why should I give in?

I laughed at that last thought. It might be the war of their lives, but I was a human being. I was above this. So I shrugged. Slowly, I went towards the nearest vacant bin lid and carefully placed my half-eaten sandwich on top. Immediately, the closest bird dived for it. And the bird with my keys in hostage swooped towards my entrance door and let the keys tumble on to the placemat.

I stood in wonderment for a moment, and then finally started walking towards the door again. As I did, the head honcho bird flew away, and I caught sight of a yellow tag clipped to its wing, emblazoned with the number 23.

Days, weeks went by and I forgot all about the cockatoo herd. Life took over and even bullying birds in back alleys seemed forgettable. Then, one day, cockatoo no. 23 paid me a surprise visit. I was looking out the window of my flat on the second floor of the apartment, and suddenly it blocked out my vision as it settled itself comfortably on the window sill. Coincidentally, or not, I had been baking some fresh bread and the smell was wafting out the open window. I let out a long, slow sigh and met eyes with no. 23. It looked back expectantly.

“Fine,” I said out loud. “But only just a bit.”

It squawked in supposed agreement. I ripped a thick edge of bread off the loaf, and placed it elegantly on the window sill. I thought that was the end of it, but then the bird unexpectedly puked out something hidden in its beak, not on the sill, but over it and into my kitchen sink. Something “clanged” metallically against the drain. To my astonishment, it was a golden ring.

No. 23 flew off and I gawked after it.

Two days later, I was dawdling up the stairs to my flat when my neighbour came huffing up behind me. He was heaving with perspiration.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for that darn thing,” he said angrily, almost to himself.

“What?” I queried.

“My wedding band. Been hunting the whole building, my office, the flat. Can’t think where I put it. The missus is close to killing me, I tell you. She thinks I lost it on purpose to look single to the ladies, if you know what I mean.”    

I didn’t. He was nearing 60 and the opposite of athletic. But that thought was overtaken by another, more pressing one: no. 23 stole a wedding band.

I couldn't just hand it back to him. As if he’d believe that cockatoo no. 23 exchanged his wedding band for a piece of bread. So I flicked the band under his flat door a few days later when I knew he was out. Hopefully, that would solve the drama without any trouble. And it did. But my encounters with no. 23 took a turn for the worse.

Maybe I’d betrayed myself as a weak, doormat excuse for a person. No. 23 started paying me daily visits, expecting its dinner on a platter. The requests became increasingly extravagant. And each time it would pay me with items of value, financial or sentimental. It really seemed to understand the human experience. I got a pocket watch, a book on gardening, free movie tickets (bonus for a friend), a picture frame and a kaleidoscope. Obviously I felt guilty, like I was thieving by proxy. The guilt grew inside me like a weed, uncontrollable and ugly and in desperate need of a firm, clean yanking out.

So one day, I took a stand. Cockatoo no. 23 flew to my window sill at its usual time, and I shut the window and pulled down the blinds in its face. I could hear screeching protests from the other side, but I chose to ignore it. It was a tough wait. The screeching went on for a good ten minutes. It was like waiting for the really bad horror scenes in a horror movie to be over and done with already.

Finally, silence. I exhaled in relief. The feeling was temporary. Soon it was overtaken by a growing unease, starting in the pit of my stomach and expanding out until my skin was covered in goosebumps. Later that night I had strange nightmares of birds peering in at the windows and flying down chimneys, their beady eyes fixed on me and slowly enlarging until I was swallowed up whole by a giant black pupil.

The next day, after an evening work shift at Sloppy Burgers, I came home in a daze of exhaustion. Suddenly I got that funny intuition again, and it led me out on to the balcony. I knew my intuition was a real thing: I had a nice collection of garden gnomes and a makeshift garden out there, consisting largely of flower pots. Orchids and that kind of thing. Everything was smashed. Shards of clay and mounds of dirt and dismembered gnomes were scattered everywhere. My jaw dropped and I could feel my heart thud-thud-thudding inside my chest. How could they! I thought to myself.

The rest of that night, I paced back and forth, wondering what to do. I was sure there was the equivalent of pest control for birds or something. All I needed to do was make a few phone calls, right? Finally, I came to a decision.

5:50pm, next day. I was putting the final touches on a real treat of a meal for cockatoo no. 23. That’s right, I gave in to fear like a snivelling chicken. I set it out carefully on to the window sill, hoping that no. 23 would arrive and accept my peace offering. And it worked. No. 23 arrived at 6pm on the dot and shifted from foot to foot in approval.

And so it continued. I would deliver the meal and the cockatoo would deliver the gift. I started getting a real kick out of receiving little knick-knacks (as I liked to call them, even the really valuable items) and guessing to myself what I would receive next.

No. 23 and I became good friends, and I started to sense some real loyalty between us. Or at least, I felt loyal towards no. 23, I couldn’t speak on its behalf.

A few weeks after the balcony incident, I was lounging about watching some sitcom reruns when my intercom buzzed.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Yeah, umm is this the residence of flat no. 4?”

“Yeah.”

“Look, can you buzz me up? I’m with the local police station, my name is Constable Jack Lim.”

I felt something heavy in my chest. I had no choice but to oblige though.

A minute later, I could see from my doorway a very tall uniformed officer making his way around the corner of the staircase outside my flat. He wore an armour vest over his blue uniform and a navy blue cap pulled down low.   

He paused at the threshold and gave me a good look-over. I wanted nothing more in that moment but to sink into the carpet like it was quicksand. He then asked me for my name and some other details, which he scratched into his notebook.

“Ok, look,” he finally said. “I’ll get to the point, and I apologise in advance if any of this comes across as… funny.” His facial expression didn't change though. It remained decidedly unimpressed.

“Sure,” I replied, my voice a little shaky.

“You might’ve heard of wing-tagged birds?”

“Sorry, no.”

“There’s a bit of a project going on in Sydney at the moment. Wing-tagged birds. They’re clipped with little tags with numbers on ‘em,” he gestured with his hand. Then he continued, “You know, to track their movements and activities.”

“Ah, right.”

“Yeah. Well look, there’s a certain group of these birds, cockatoos specifically, that are getting a bit of a reputation for being out of control. Harassing people, trashing bins, that sort of thing...” He paused deliberately, then added, “Theft.”

“Theft?” I tried to sound incredulous.

“Yeah, theft,” the officer straightened his posture to emphasise how tall he was. “There have been many reports of theft, some of these cockatoos have been caught in the act actually but…well, they always get away. Because, you know, they can fly.” Even he couldn’t save these last few words from awkwardness.

“That’s just unbelievable.”

“Yeah, it is. But you better believe it. In fact, there’s a particularly notorious bird, tag uh… no. 23,” he said, peering down at his notebook. “It seems to lead the pack, but we haven’t been able to catch it yet. You know it?”

I paused, panic sweeping over me like a salty tidal wave.

“No,” I finally said.

“Well,” the officer continued sternly, “there have been reports of high theft in the area, and many sightings of no. 23 around this flat, in fact. Right there on your window sill,” he craned his neck over the threshold and jerked his chin towards the window over my kitchen sink.

“Oh, I haven’t noticed anything. I mean, I’ve noticed birds out there obviously, but not any tags or anything.”

“Well, one witness reported that she saw you feeding bird no. 23 and it chucked something in your direction. Could’ve sworn it was a CD.”

I slowly shook my head from side to side. “She must be imagining things,” I said, laughing weakly.

“I see,” the officer looked unconvinced. He seemed to struggle for a moment to reach some decision. Then, he exhaled, “Well, I guess if you do see something or come across anything that could help us, let us know.” He pulled out a card from his pocket and handed it over to me.

“Sure, absolutely,” I smiled widely.

The officer frowned, tipped his hat and left.

That evening, cockatoo no. 23 showed up at my window sill at its usual time. I gave it its meal, and then whispered urgently about the new situation. I couldn’t be sure if it understood any of it, but I had high hopes from the way it quickly grabbed the food and took off. Sooner than it usually would. It still left me a little something: a gift card for a boutique store. Nice.

I was right about cockatoo no. 23’s comprehension skills. It didn’t show up again. I would think about it now and then, even miss it quite a bit. But I didn’t miss the drama. I mean, there was a certain thrill to the whole thing, including theft by proxy. But it wasn’t sustainable.

Then one day, I was walking below a tree full of cockatoos. I tilted my head up and waved at them, wondering if no. 23 was up there. Just then, someone smashed right into me and wrenched my backpack away, which was hanging loosely off one of my shoulders. I cried out and tried to chase after the thief but they were too fast. Before I knew it, I had lost sight of them. I fell on my knees and let out an angry yell. My wallet, my phone, all my most valuable possessions were in that bag.

I went immediately to the police station. Constable Jack Lim, of all people, took my statement. I could’ve sworn though he didn’t care too much. When I would look away and then look back at him, I would almost nearly catch a sly grin on his face, like he was thinking, “Karma, right?”

Just as I predicted, the police were totally useless. They didn’t come up with any leads or anything. I waited around for days, fretting and calling up my bank and phone company and all the rest of it. I knew finding my backpack was a lost cause.

Till one day. Another miserable shift at Sloppy Burgers, another epic inner monologue about the misery that was my life. I went out on to the balcony for some fresh air, and that’s when I came across it: my backpack, sitting neatly against the wall. I jumped in excitement and ran to it, opening the zipper clumsily. Inside, all my belongings were still there. Perfectly intact. I couldn’t believe it. How was it possible?

Then I found two more things inside the backpack: a driver’s licence, which I just knew belonged to the thief. And, a half-eaten sandwich, the exact kind that cockatoo no. 23 liked. I smiled to myself.