Do Kookaburras Hold a Grudge?

This morning, I walk into the family room and stop dead. There’s a kookaburra perched on the wingback armchair. I’ve had birds inside before – a king parrot sometimes goes for my muesli if I leave the table, or a confused noisy miner might wander in. But never a kookaburra.

Instead of flying out when it sees me, it fluffs its multi-tone taupe feathers and fixes me with a stare. David Sedaris, in an article for The New Yorker, once described a kookaburra as looking like your high school gym coach with a buzz cut. I half-expect it to tell me to drop and give him twenty. I stand my ground, acutely aware of its very long, weapon-like beak. I’ve never heard of a kookaburra going for a human…but this kookaburra and I have history.

Don’t get me wrong, I love kookaburras — their self-assuredness, their maniacal laugh when a storm is coming or one of them has said something funny. But if they happen to nest outside a bedroom window that catches the early morning sunlight, you’re in for a rough time.

This was us two years ago.

We quickly learned that when the first sunrays hit the glass at five am, kookaburras will mistake their reflection for an enemy. They fly full-speed at the glass, their massive beak taking the impact. If you haven’t experienced it, you can’t imagine the noise — like a truck hitting the side of your house. The impact reverberates through your brain, jarring you awake — every single morning for the duration of the nesting season.

So last year when I spotted them checking out their old haunt to build a nest, I was keen to discourage them. I stood on the deck, almost eye-height with them, and, waving my arms around, I shouted, There are lots of trees in our garden – just pick a different one.

One of the pair flew off but the other remained. I shouted and waved again to no effect. My only option was the garden hose. Not on fireman’s strength, of course, just enough to make them think this was not the best spot for babies. It watched me unfurl the hose. I turned it on and sprayed water in its general direction. No response (I assumed it was inwardly laughing at me). I turned it on a bit harder. Still nothing. I went for direct contact. It squinted and leaned in, holding firm to the branch. Eventually it retreated to a nearby flame tree, from where its mate had been watching on.

But in the following days they kept returning and each time I resorted to the hose. I had to convince them they were in the wrong neighbourhood. In the end, I won.

But now we’re in another face-off — this time inside my own house. I try shooing it with my arms, all the while keeping my eye on that beak. I toss a cushion (gently) in its direction. It stands firm. I consider ignoring it and getting on with my day, but I don’t want it to poop on the chair. So we’re in a staring competition. We remain like this for some time.

Perhaps out of boredom it finally leaves and takes up position on the deck balustrade, from where it continues to observe me.

I settle onto the couch with my laptop and begin tapping away at a story. But my concentration is soon shattered by a violent fluttering and flapping of wings, a flurry of bloodthirsty activity right on the door sill.

The kookaburra has swooped onto the deck, grabbed something in its terrifying beak and arced its way up to the flame tree. It’s shaking its head from side to side, in the manner of a crocodile killing its prey.

I run out with my phone and manage to capture the last moments of a small animal’s life. In the “live” photo (a feature on my phone that records a nanosecond of video before it becomes a still photo), a tail is still visible, hanging from the kookaburra’s beak, but is then swallowed, leaving just the image of the kookaburra.

Studying the photo, I shudder. Whatever it was, probably a mouse, was going about its day, living its best life. Then I shudder again at the realisation that that mouse had apparently been about to cross the threshold into my house!

So, I have mixed feelings. Was the kookaburra offering an olive branch, saving me from a rodent — or sending a warning — Godfather-style? Nice place you’ve got here, shame to see a family of mice move in. And by the way, we’ll nest where we please.

It’s winter here in Sydney. I guess I’ll know soon enough if they’re planning to nest outside my window. But if they do, they should know I’m up for the battle!