An ornithological interlude

One is the cocrico, which I will never learn to like. I wrote this in a 2005 article: “(The) cocrico (is) described in official publications as representing Tobago in our coat of arms.

Bizarre representation, because (it) is, quite simply, a considerable agricultural pest … I have the impression that it eats everything but sour limes … It even eats flowers … and … has also learned how to dig up sweet potatoes for dinner.

Or lunch. Whatever. As far as I am concerned, it has absolutely no redeeming qualities … At a time when we’re being lectured on the need for food security, we protect a ‘national’ bird which revels in wholly anti-national behaviour by creating food insecurity … If I were Basdeo Panday, I would call it an avian terrorist.” Since then, I’ve modified my views somewhat. It does have one important redeeming quality: it is family-oriented, and can thus teach many of us humans a valuable lesson. But I still say its bad behaviour outweighs the good.

The tropical mockingbird is another co-habitant. “(The) male singing for female company,” I wrote in 2005, “is, with apologies to Charlie Parker, the Dizzy Gillespie of birdland. He can improvise melodiously for hours on end without repeating a single passage.” Parker, whose nickname was “Bird,” and who was the joint composer of a jazz tune called Ornithology, would have learned a thing or two.

Tanagers and bananaquits are around as well, though not in the numbers I used to see when I would put crumbs on a dining- room window sill. I had to discontinue the practice. Watching them feed was all very pleasing.

The trouble was that they were not toilet-trained, and defecation followed digestion with alarming immediacy. On the same sill. Constant cleaning-up became a chore too many.

The ubiquitous ground dove, with its brisk, head-jerking walk, is also present. And though doves — at least, according to the United Nations — are a symbol of peace, the ones in my yard spar interminably over who is to get what, and how much: raised feathers and spread wings, to indicate primacy and authority, are normal conduct.

Even in doveland, it seems, there are assertions of who is in charge.

Last year there was a new and not at all welcome arrival: parrots.

Small and green, they fly in large flocks, squeaking and squawking, on their way to or from attacking your fruit trees, in my case, pommecythère.

And they have a thoroughly irritating habit of pecking one fruit, leaving a hole, then moving on to another, where they do the same.

Why not finish one fruit and leave some whole ones for me? But no: that’s too easy. First cocrico, then parrot. What sin have I committed? It must be a grave sin, because recently I’ve been woken earlier than usual by the activity of a clearly demented woodpecker, which has persuaded itself that my galvanised metal roof (if I said “galvanise roof,” I would be promptly rebuked by Prof Clément Imbert) is really made of wood.

Does anyone know a good bird psychiatrist? Several years ago another bird species appeared in my backyard, but this one was and is easily acceptable: the motmot. Where the first one came from and why, I have no idea. But one day there suddenly it was, sitting in a poui tree watching me.

Did it want food? But what did motmots eat? I hurriedly consulted Richard ffrench’s Birds of Trinidad and Tobago; scraps, it said. I threw out a piece of bread; the bird zoomed in on it. Word spread in the motmot community, and — with the exception of three weeks some months ago, when clearing of land for a new housing project nearby apparently obliged them to look for fresh accommodation — they’ve been coming ever since: early morning and late afternoon, occasionally at lunchtime as well, though not on rainy days.

They call when they don’t see anyone — a hoot or a turkey-like gobble — and not infrequently fly into the house and perch expectantly on the back of a chair. A dining- room chair, of course. Mercifully, they have outside toilets. And they are discriminating in their tastes. After close examination, one the other day not only rejected my offer — the bread, admittedly, was stale — but then gave me a look which needed no interpretation.

I hastily corrected my error.

Now why can’t a well-behaved bird like the motmot replace the cocrico in our coat of arms? Incidentally, did you know that our current republican arms feature “the Queen’s helm?” What queen? M o r e p r e c i s e - ly, which q u e e n ? P e r h a p s President Ca rmona and the PoS City C o u n c i l could help?