Tawnyed Apart
January 2015 marked a seven-year itch between me and my feathered friend, a male Tawny Frogmouth. Our courtship began in 2008 when I granted him roosting rights in the 100-year-old lily pily tree growing in my back garden in suburban Sydney. We were birds of a feather. He was a bachelor on the wing, I was a solo man in search of a mate on solid ground.
Every morning for seven years we gave each other a wink before he settled down for some shuteye after a night out, and I tried my luck in the big city.
If your surname is Frogmouth, you’re not doing yourself any favours with the ladies. Wearing non-descript grey plumage is not ‘dressing to impress’ and the ability to defecate with force and pinpoint accuracy at any interloper is not exactly something to crow about. Add to this a couple of hairy whiskers protruding from above your beak, and you’re ugly all over.
But this bloke had presence and was seldom ruffled. Stories abound from tree loppers who regularly come across these owl-like aviators at arms length. At close encounters, the human form is met with a wide-eyed cursory glance before the birds resume ‘as they were’, camouflaged and at one within the tree they reside in.
From his lofty residence this bird was chief surveyor and watched me cut the grass (not his), play cricket, retrieve the bins, drive the car, entertain friends and trim the odd bush. All the while, rain, hail and shine he just sat and stared. If only birds could talk.
Ours was a Simebiotic relationship. I provided him with the leafy, safe habitat and in return, he remained loyal and restored my belief that unusual wildlife could actually exist in the burbs.
Parochial protectionism became my mantra as I fended off felines and opportunist Channel-billed Cuckoos that were keen to deposit their eggs in his nest. I even fashioned a blow pipe and spat bread dough projectiles at big Cs, Currawongs, which were keen to stick their beaks in. Throwdowns used to be far more effective.
Tawny’s nest consisted of a loose platform of sticks placed on a horizontal fork of the lily pily tree. In September each year it was constructed in the same spot, sure as eggs. It was always a dodgy build. Twigs and tufts of bush lying scattered on the ground beneath the nest signified a Flying Failure or FF for Architecture 101.
But I wanted what he had, particularly the hair follicles, because it didn't take long for the tawny’s night moves to work. A female accepted his advances and when the lights went out, the pair soon consummated their union.
Whilst amateurs at building, Frogmouths are brilliant at landscape maintenance. Snails, slugs, errant rats, cockroaches and other pesky critters were swooped upon and dispatched by these silent night flyers.
For five of the seven years the pair was frequently ‘on the nest’ but something was up. The big fella was either shooting blanks or birth control was in play, courtesy of pesticides in the food chain. Succession planning was proving to be a problem. Eggs were either left abandoned after six unsuccessful weeks of incubation, tossed over the edge by mistake to meet a shattering end or the contents were consumed by currawongs.
Finally, in 2013 a little miracle appeared in the form of one chick, followed by two more the following season. The pair’s persistence and my tutelage were rewarded. I almost sprouted wings in admiration and I considered myself to be a surrogate of sorts.
And so it was, the seven year cycle of life that had bought much joy but ultimately, sadness.
I dug a shallow grave beneath his lily pily tree and lay the feathered remains to rest. It was a far more dignified place than the bleak stretch of hot tar where he had met his end, most likely while hunting for insects illuminated in the beam of car headlights.
For now there is no RSVP coming from the lily pily or eHarmony in my backyard. I’ve lost my bird and partner. But it’s not all bad news, his widow and teenage offspring are still in the hood. I just hope they don’t decide to hit the road.
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