When I moved to Brisbane afew years ago I was befriended by a small black and white butcherbird. She wasn't known as Mrs Tutu in the beginning.
One day she came and sat on the balcony and sang the sweetest tune, lyrical, whispery, gentle. Listen here to the delightful song. Mrs Tutu would come alone and ask for small morsels. The different voices she used depended on the time of day and her needs. Sometimes it's shrieky like 'Where's my food now! Please.' Sometimes is soft and chatty, especially when she brings some of her friends over. Then there is a quiet rumbling conversation going on as each bird acknowledges their meal - unless or until someone else wants to steal their cache.
Mrs Tutu has visited for several years now. And her family has grown. Each year she has two fledglings and this is how she got her name.
About two years ago, she came a bit too often. She was obviously feeding. She'd catch moths on the fly and search the garden for luscious worms and other special treats. One day she came and all her tummy feathers had worn away from sitting on the eggs. Then a couple of weeks later, small feathery tufts started to appear. In no time her regrowth resembled a tutu. And from then on, that become her name.
When she was hungry, and just like a baby bird, she would flap her wings and look up at the door expectantly. Each year she brought her babies. For about two years the babies are brown, and then they turn black and white and look resplendent in their new garb.
But at Christmas last year something went awry. Mrs Tutu could not fly. She had only one working wing. She spent her days on the neighbour's verandah and found shelter there in stormy weather. But she could hop and was off to her tree-bed outside the house across the road. She would hop up the treetrunk from branch to branch. And when she was hungry she'd hop back across the way for a feed.
But her recovery was not to be easy. New owners arrived in Mrs Tutu's territory. All the trees, everyone, were gone in a day. Mrs Tutu lost her shelter but lucklly she found refuge in a tallish Callistemon out on the nature strip. What had happened to her? How had she damaged her wing? The new owners did not care. They cut the bottom branches of the tree that Mrs Tutu used as a tree climbing launching pad.
Then came an amazing discovery. Mrs Tutu had two babies she had to look after. She could not feed herself but she could hop across the road for a feed and then hop back and up the tree where you could hear the babies sqwalking.
I didn't know what to do. So I rang one of the wildlife care organisations and told them the story. 'Don't ask for the bird to be looked after', I was told. 'She won't live so let nature take its course. If you have the bird rescued, it will be euthanised'. So I did nothing and continued to support her needs.
When the babies were big enough she brought them across to the front door to be fed. After a week or so, there was only one. The smaller baby had broken its beak and could not feed.
We all lived together like that for several weeks. Then an amazing thing happened. One afternoon, while we were sitting in the living room I heard a familar cry - but from the back door not the front. All the butcher birds have a distinctive voice, and hers was definately recognizable. We were amazed and excited. We watched as she hopped up on the back fence and gingerly made her way round to the front of the house and back across the road.
A few weeks after that Mrs Tutu's wing got stronger. And her long wing feathers grew back. It had been three months and now she could fly. She is indeed a miracle bird.
Question:
Do you have a miracle or transformative experience in or about nature? Why not blog about it?
Image source:
Pied Butcherbird singing at dawn, Darwin, NT
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