HWe came to our house in exchange for a case of beer. A white-crested cockatoo of undetermined age but full of chutzpah. He had lived the childhood of the children of the neighboring farm and now he was going to entertain us.

This neighbor really saw me coming.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. We believe Cocky was a boy, although the bird books haven’t really shown any conclusive evidence. He lived in a large garden shed next to the clothesline.

There, Cocky babbled and howled throughout the day, keeping me company when the kids were at school. He came up with a directory. One of his favorite tricks was to shout “Muuuuum”. I rushed out the back door to find him swinging up and down on his perch like crazy.

He anticipated the farm shed meeting at 7:30 am every morning making the perfect impression of a diesel engine overturning. He marked my life for many years.

When the kelpie had puppies running away under its perch, it would add puppy calls to its range, and if the children got particularly loud it would bark, as if to keep them in line.

I have become a little more arrogant myself. This is how it started. I started to let him out one day at a time. Then a few days at a time. I imagined a time when he would sit on my shoulder and chat all day.

Cocky had other ideas. He began to act like a little general, marching around the joint, berating the family for unknown crimes. The farmer found him near the dogs, holding the kelpies in their kennels like a schoolmaster.

When the children carried sticks to chase him away, Cocky would pick up a twig and shout “Ooooooh! »On guard!

Then he started to herd us together like a cattle dog. He would bite our heels if we didn’t move fast enough. He banged on the front door windows shouting “MOM”. He watched us through the windows, flying around the house like a feathered stalker. I felt like Tippi Hedren in The Birds of Hitchcock.

Cocky was becoming a little dictator.

I was happy to grant her freedom but the message did not get through.

I tried to bring him back to his cage but he was having too much fun. It would have been OK because he was relatively nice to me but he didn’t like the Farmer.

Then the war started. To be fair, Cocky has started. It landed on my husband’s shoulder. The farmer casually returned to the aviary, naively assuming he had this bird in the bag.

As they got closer, Cocky clamped his jaw on the Farmer’s meaty earlobe, sending him jerk and flutter as the bird took flight.

Then the small predator began to wait in the gutter above the backdoor, hoping the farmer would start the day. Its lanky prey started walking towards the shed with a straw broom over its shoulder for protection.

Things got worse. I imagine the people of wartime London walked around the same way, gazing up at the sky and waiting for the bombing.

It’s funny how you get used to things. There was the farmer, a grown man on a riding mower, swinging a broom around his head like a shelled cockatoo like a psychopathic magpie in the spring. Finally, Cocky stood in front of the mower.

The man and the bird were looking at each other.

Cocky, with a glare, challenged the farmer to run over him. He took a stand for the arrogant boss. It was a scene similar to a tanker in Tiananmen Square.

The Farmer, broom in hand, weighed the harm a marriage would do of crushing a white cockatoo versus the joy of flying its feathers once and for all.

Cocky won. The farmer lowered his head and walked around the bright-eyed terrorist. The farmer had the last word, however. Cocky was passed on to a couple of animal lovers nearby. His new friend could match Cocky’s treble and more.

From the back door she was shouting “HELLO COCKY !!! In a voice carried by the wind. Two weeks later, Cocky piloted the henhouse.

I like to think he got his freedom. But more likely, he’s ruling someone else’s perch. I will not vote for the Sulfur-crested Cockatoo.