Bertha (or maybe Bert) awaiting breakfast
She only picks out the fine seed and kicks the rest out
for the magpies and those "terribly common pigeons" to find
Lying in my hammock the other day, making every effort to stay awake long enough to read another chapter of my book before dropping off to sleep in the somnolent heat of the afternoon, I became aware that just below me was a small white dove sporting a black feathered collar.
At first I lay absolutely still for fear of frightening her away, but she looked up at me, and gave the dove equivalent of a yawn, and continued pecking and picking among the leaves. This dove was definitely not afraid.
A day or two later, I became aware of an insistent call emanating from the line of trees in the back garden. "Co Coo Coo - Co Coo Coo". On and on it went until it became more than a little annoying. "Hey - shove off and do that somewhere else" I suggested, in a manner that I am sure David Attenborough would find most offensive. I waved my broom at her but it only resulted in her flapping to the next available branch and carrying on.
After two or three days of this behaviour, I began to realise that the dove was demanding more than just my attention, and if I wanted any peace, I had better work out what it was that she wanted in return. In the garage, I had some left-over wildbird seed from the winter, and taking a small pot of the grain, I whistled the same repeated call, and low and behold, she flapped down and sat on the bird table and waited for her breakfast to come.
For two weeks now, Bertha the Bird has arrived earlier and earlier, and I have learned to sleep with an earplug next to the bed rather than put up with her 4.30am room service demands. She seems to have got the message and now awaits for my 8am appearance, probably mocking my tousled hair and voluminous cotton nightdress.
"Co Coo Coo" she sings, as I sprinkle her seed on the table and bid her "Good morning Bertha". She eats, she flutters down into the pond for a quick wash and brush-up, and then with one more backward beady look, she flies up and away to the woods.
But there is more to the story - Bertha has a past! My best friend Maggie tells me that doves mate for life and yet Bertha is always alone. The previous inhabitant of the house mentions a dove that she used to feed here five years ago who sounds suspiciously like Bertha. If doves can live for up to twenty years, then perhaps she is a broken-hearted lonely widow.
I think I'd better give her an extra scoop tomorrow, and I'll never again say "Shoo shoo" when she says "Co Coo"
