Gina from 3 doors down accompanied by 8-year-old Emma, clutching a Weet-Bix box, came to our door. Gina explained they’d found a bird they’d like identified. Often happens during school holidays.
“Could be a big budgie. Show John our bird, Honey.”
‘Honey’ dipped her paw into the cereal box and proffered the bedraggled carcass of a male Red-rumped Parrot. I quickly dismissed the ‘big-budgie’ hypothesis.
“Where did you find the bird, Emma?”
“Um, one of the cats brought it in.”
“Bonnie and Clyde on the loose again?”
“Johnno, we call our kitties Prince and Princessa,” Gina advised.
“Oh, pardonnez meow!”
“Now run on home, Emma, pop the birdie in the wheelie bin and wash your handies. I need to say something to Mr. John.” Emma thanked me and scarpered. I wanted to do likewise, this neighbourly chat was heading south.
“Listen mate, you told my grandpa the little English sparrows that come into our chook pen are baby pigeons, and he believed you. That not good, Bud, not good at all. You shouldn’t have done that, he’s 92.
“Oops, slipped up on my bird ID.”
“You did not! You were being clever and smart and funny-ha-ha. You don’t do that no more. You have a lovely day anyhow.” I returned her heartfelt good wishes and away she went.
So I’ve learnt my lesson: you put out chicken feed you’ll attract baby pigeons.
John Layton
Holt.
