Larry Bird is often waiting on the deck when I pull the morning curtains. He does not squawk insistently, like he did a month ago when I first met him. He has the bright eye and dipping head, signalling he is ready for breakfast. Jack next door told me he eats any scraps, and he does. I have put out a dish of mashed potatoes. He ate them, but his beak scatters fragments. A ball of Robyn’s meatloaf was snatched, and he scuttled down deck and under the wooden chair to consume. What now I am out of meatloaf?
At the supermarket I bought a 20 pack of meatballs. I had seen him extract a worm out of the lawn. Raw meat should be the go for Larry. But where is he today? The ball is thawed to room temperature, to live worm temperature. No Larry.
It is scarcely a month since I met Larry scuttling about among the sneaker-sized shed leaves of the pukapuka at the bottom of the garden. He followed me into the car port conservatory, where I was returning the leaf rake, having failed to find any windfall peaches or early feijoas. He sat on the potting bench and watched me watering the bromeliads and the umbrella plant. We were already in pretty much a drought.
I returned to the house to make breakfast and Larry followed, coming inside. A tame thrush. This was new to me. His non-stop shrill demands for food had me scratching my head. I had to give him something to shut him up. Fridge didn’t seem to have anything he would eat. Maybe cheese? Ah yes, I still had some of Danny’s falafel balls frozen. I extracted one and put it in the microwave, Larry hopping along the bench for a close look, maybe checking if it was fit for eating purposes. I lifted it out, steaming and hot, just about dropped it. Larry observed my clumsiness.
I broke the ball into a saucer, blew on it, telling him to stop his accelerating shrieks. Would a falafel ball burn his gullet?
I got out the door with Larry flapping beside me, put the saucer down on the deck and he swooped and gobbled the lot. Then flew off without a nod of thanks.
Back at the bottom of the garden replanting astelias along the fenceline, I asked Jack if he had encountered this thrush.
‘You mean Larry Bird?’
‘Named after the American basketball player, right? Do you feed him?’
‘He comes into the house for lunch.’
‘He came to my place for breakfast. What do you feed him?’
‘Anything. And he doesn’t mind being picked up.’
So next morning I picked up Larry. He tolerated it, no struggling, a warm handful. But he was cheeping for food. I offered him a fragment of meatloaf. He demolished it and flew off.
This began the morning meet to feed Larry. Every morning for weeks I fed him. He spent time following me from car port to garden and back, offering company. I looked forward to it. So did Jack. We compared notes over the fence, Neil joining one day to inform us that he had googled thrushes, and they can live for 21 years. Larry would be around for a long time. Great.
By now the peaches were done and I was waiting for all those feijoas hanging on despite the high winds. One day there was a plump feijoa on the ground. Woohoo. I took it inside, glancing about for Larry. The meatballs would be just his sort of food.
The feijoa was heaven on a plate. But no Larry. I had seen the trespassing cat insinuating itself among the pukapuka. Had it whacked Larry? He spent a lot of time on the ground. He was just too trusting. No mum or dad to warn him of feline threat. Surely not. The feijoa was stuck in my gullet. I stood on the deck, waiting and hoping and praying Larry would arrive.
Larry, I hardly knew you, but it was nice to have been of service. I am reminded of the medieval story of life like a bird that flits into the house, flaps around for a brief time, and then is gone. Goodbye, Larry Bird.