At my age and visual disintegration , never in my wildest dreams could I imagine myself becoming , to use the modern jargon, a chick magnet. That was until I whistled at a bird from the kitchen window. It was not a wolf whistle, more of a cross between a Magnetic Island Butcher Bird which could clearly imitate a telephone ringing and the penetrating call of a Currawong on a misty morning in the Kurringai Chase waterways. The bird I whistled at – an Orange Footed Scrub Turkey – was energetically re-arranging the garden beds, sending mulch flying, as it does every day .
On hearing my whistle it desisted its random landscaping and peered intently at the kitchen window. Once more I burst out into birdsong , and the Scrub Turkey went crazy. First, it stood up tall, flapped its wings and ran in and out of the shrubs . Then it came back to the kitchen window and tried to see who this amazing bird was, a siffleur up there with the Three Tenors in that he made you want to run free , having pushed your button. I whistled madly , like a person trying to attract a taxi in Mitchell Street on Saturday night. Each time, the turkey flapped, ran around, cackled with ecstacy and after jogging about came back to the kitchen window to try and see Big Bird.
Once , while this writer was sheltering from the midday sun in a Sydney pub, there was a barfly there with a silver moustache and a Homburg hat who entertained drinkers with birdcalls . After going through many calls , he announced he would now do the most difficult bird of all, the Swallow. Thereupon, he reached for a glass of beer- and swallowed it in one gulp. Drinkers lined him up another free one to wash down the feathers , such acts of generosity usually turning him into a Laughing Jackass by the end of the day.
On hearing my whistle it desisted its random landscaping and peered intently at the kitchen window. Once more I burst out into birdsong , and the Scrub Turkey went crazy. First, it stood up tall, flapped its wings and ran in and out of the shrubs . Then it came back to the kitchen window and tried to see who this amazing bird was, a siffleur up there with the Three Tenors in that he made you want to run free , having pushed your button. I whistled madly , like a person trying to attract a taxi in Mitchell Street on Saturday night. Each time, the turkey flapped, ran around, cackled with ecstacy and after jogging about came back to the kitchen window to try and see Big Bird.
Once , while this writer was sheltering from the midday sun in a Sydney pub, there was a barfly there with a silver moustache and a Homburg hat who entertained drinkers with birdcalls . After going through many calls , he announced he would now do the most difficult bird of all, the Swallow. Thereupon, he reached for a glass of beer- and swallowed it in one gulp. Drinkers lined him up another free one to wash down the feathers , such acts of generosity usually turning him into a Laughing Jackass by the end of the day.
