Almost a year ago, a little brown bird with no tail feathers started to follow us around our small garden.
After a few days, and lured by some strategically placed snails, we enticed the now aptly named Shorty ever closer, and soon every morning he was on the deck, waiting expectantly for a free feed.
The harvesting and feeding of snails gave way to the much more convenient raisins. Now he came and plucked them off the palm or knee, and a quiet demeanour and measured movement ensured he wasn’t all that fussy about the donor.
This little brown bird was now being shadowed by another who happened to be his dad; a decidedly scruffy male blackbird going through a moult who we named Ratty. Ratty wouldn’t come near but observed the human interaction from a distance.
We became immersed in the world of the blackbird, learning to differentiate between song and call. Conversely, Shorty quickly learned the importance of silence. Anticipating discovery in alien territory, he could sit for 15 minutes without even batting an eyelid but on discovery was chased away by Ratty, after hopefully having had his fill.
Early 2016 saw the arrival of a female friend and feeding patterns changed. Shorty would consume three or four raisins then later return, but this time line up the same number in his beak and deliver them back to his spouse and brood. Shortly after, Shorty arrived with a couple of recently fledged infants, one of which, within days, was not only robbing his dad of his loot but brazenly having his own fill from us. Shorty’s intolerance for this gluttonous behaviour increased as did Ratty’s of another family feeding in his patch.
This ultimately required a family move across the road to Jon and Shelley’s. A quick call of Shorty’s name and presentation of the favoured snack saw the birds soon feeding from the resident small boys, who now had ready-made pets living busy bird lives just outside their kitchen window.
The Potatau Street footpath left-side down was the boundary between Ratty and Shorty’s patches. Cock fights were a regular part of ongoing territory wars but then the two combatants could be seen sitting together on an apparently neutral fence outside number 22.
Three weeks ago Shorty appeared at the front door with both feet tangled with fine thread. While he managed to break the piece between his feet, over the ensuing weeks he showed considerable discomfort and was obviously distressed. We often discussed options for his capture; even contacting Bird Rescue who could offer no more advice than that what we already knew.
Box traps with string never lasted longer than the attention-spans of the young boys. Bird netting was on-hand but we were always just not quick enough, and Shorty was starting to get wary.
Last Wednesday, coming home from town, a black shape swooped along the block to meet me, and then followed up the front steps, hopping up one by one. As soon as I was inside, and while reaching for the raisins, a cunning plan presented itself. Having the front door half closed, I enticed him in, and then closed the door. It worked, and while a little confused, Shorty just flew up on top of the hall dresser and checked out the surroundings.
During the "Jon, get over here quick, I have got him!" phone-call and, in hindsight, predictably, Shorty flew into the kitchen and bang, straight into the window. He stood, head slightly cocked, staring at it in a bemused sort of way. Jon arrived and after two attempts we managed to catch him and gently wrapped in a towel, surgery began.
The poor boy, it took 20 minutes of delicate cutting and unwinding, amid struggles and squawks of pain as thread was gently pulled from swollen flesh.
Surgery over, Jon went home to get some antiseptic cream and I realised after a couple of moments, the rapidly beating heart was no more. The poor mite had died in my hands. "You little bastard" I kept repeating, "why did you die!" Surely just a few more minutes, time for some rest and recovery, repeating, sadly and everything would have been okay.
After half an hour, I took his little body in the black towel outside and placed it on the table. The second I went back inside, Ratty, who never came close, flew down onto the deck directly under Shorty’s body, stood for a few moments, then flew off.
Later, and having regained some semblance of composure, I laid Shorty out, wrapped in a piece of cloth in a smart little white box rescued from the recycling, with a couple of raisins to help him on his way.
On the following Monday evening, and after a few days in a zip-lock bag in the fridge, Shorty was buried in Jon and Shelley’s garden directly under his first nest with the help of the boys and a bottle or two of Champagne.
Ms Shorty has stayed around, is happy to be fed, but territories are already changing and other male birds have made forays into Shorty’s patch.
We would like to think that another little brown fellow will come along, turn into the jaunty, daring, cheeky blackbird our Shorty had become, and bring as much joy into our lives as he managed to do in the short time he was with us. (DAVID BATTEN, ARCH HILL)