Wildlife – Treechange life

Instead of making my morning coffee as I lay in the caravan bed, my husband was lingering outside the open door.

Was he waiting to talk to one of our camping friends returning from a walk?

Suddenly, he crooned with a sing-song lilt, “Oooogle oooogle woooogle oooogle.” And I knew he was talking to … a magpie.

We have magpies around our new home in the country, but they are aloof and independent. They don’t drink from the bird bath. Or follow us on the lawn mower like the butcher birds do, feasting on easy meals of crickets and tiny lizards.

When we moved into their territory, we were glad to find the magpies here are not in the small minority who swoop people they don’t know during nesting season … because it was nesting season.

Magpies can apparently recognise at least 500 different people. So we walked around with uncovered faces so they’d get to know us. And they’ve ignored us ever since.

Maybe country magpies are just too busy. Their city counterparts will give you the time of day on the back deck.

At my parent’s house in the city suburbs, magpies share their mornings.

Mr and Mrs Maggie know once the jug is set to boil for coffee, it’s time to make meaningful eye contact through the back window. A tiny portion of mince will be provided.

Mrs Maggie (females are mottled black and white behind their neck) knows the mince is kept in the fridge. There was that one morning when the screen door hadn’t closed, so she popped in and sat on the fridge, tapping a toe impatiently.

Magpies are known to live to 25 years, and Mr and Mrs Maggie are at least that.

My parents still remember the initial privilege of Mr and Mrs Maggie first introducing a fledgling nearly three decades ago. They’ve met a new fledgling every year since.

Each year, before the new chick arrives, there’s a gruesome period when Mr Maggie drives the adolescent chick from the territory. Many times, he’s flipped a reluctant son over on his back, with a peck that can draw blood.

One year, a departing son had the original idea of coming to the front door and knocking, while his parents were out the back. Kudos for ingenuity, but my mum and dad reinforced the wishes of Mr Maggie – it was time for the son to search for a home of his own.

Raising a fledgling is quite the commitment for magpie parents. For several months after leaving the nest, chicks need instruction on finding food, flying, and social etiquette.

It takes two adult birds to raise each fledgling. Mr and Mrs Maggie consistently raise one chick each year. Except for that wet and productive season, when grubs and earthworms must have been prolific. Mr and Mrs Maggie knew it would be a favourable season. They allowed their adolescent daughter to stay as an ‘Aunt’. That year, the three adults worked together to raise two fledglings.

Magpies have many of the same neurotransmitters as we do – including dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin. They experience emotions, including affection, playfulness, grief, and deceit. They play hide-and-seek like a five-year-old child.

Mr and Mrs Maggie deserve a huge amount of respect. They are within the 10% of magpies who reproduce in any year.

Only 25% of magpies will have the opportunity to raise a chick during their lifetime. This is due to the difficulty of finding a long-term partner and suitable territory. Also vital is the communication skills needed to form working relationships with magpies from neighbouring territories. This cooperation allows joint defence against outside threats such as eagles, goannas, and cats.

Today, my mum rang in tears. Mr and Mrs Maggie haven’t been seen for a week.

A great flock of white cockatoos, with all their screeching and chaos, had taken up in the small park next door.

We are all hoping that normality soon returns. That tomorrow, after seeing the jug set to boil, Mr and Mrs Maggie perch on the back rail, make eye contact, and ask for a breakfast treat.

Next time you see a magpie who’s willing to give you the time of day, remember they could be 30 years old, with wisdom and life experience. Remember, they’re intelligent and emotional. With highly refined communication skills.

Remember to say “Oooogle oooogle woooogle oooogle.”

Wild Australian magpie in garden with two lorikeets — Mr Maggie injured a leg 10 years ago, but he’s still doing well

Photo credits:
Featured image by Tim Phillips on Instagram @timbeyan. Pic 3 is from Pexels by Vlad Kutepov

References:
Podcasts
https://www.abc.net.au/listen/programs/conversations/talking-magpies-grieving-tawny-frogmouths-and-canny-galahs/103170988?utm_content=link&utm_medium=content_shared
https://www.tunefm.net/2024/02/02/une-emeritus-professor-gisela-kaplan-named-honorary-member-of-the-order-of-australia/
https://www.everand.com/podcast/590594548/What-makes-Australian-birds-so-smart-Gisela-Kaplan-Rebroadcast
Book
Australian Magpie: Biology and behaviour of an unusual songbird, Prof Gisela Kaplan, 2010

After my panicked phone call, the snake-catcher turned up – in shorts and thongs.

“I thought it would be a tree snake,” he said, looking at the photo I’d snapped of its disappearing tail an hour earlier – after it had slithered past my bare feet. “But that’s an Eastern Brown. I’ve never seen one around here.”

I checked in with my nearest neighbour. “Oh, really?” she said. “An Eastern Brown? I don’t remember the last time we saw one of those.”

Eastern Browns are the second deadliest snake in the world. I hope it’s gone from beneath my back stairs.

“The only way to know for sure it’s gone is to pull apart the whole staircase,” the snake-catcher said, helpfully.

That would be a full-day’s work. Plus, as Hubby estimated, three more days to put the staircase back together.

“You can live with a snake around,” said the snake catcher, “just be careful where you put your feet.”

A friend asked that night if I’d totally freaked out. I hadn’t, not immediately. Time had stood still. Then, after both the long, silent moment, and the long, silent snake, had passed me by, I’d screamed. Then, gasping, and with shaking fingers, frantically and repeatedly tried to send a text off to hubby who was slashing grass down by the dam.

I’d read that if a snake approaches you, stand still and let it pass. Ironically, in my frozen panic I’d done just that. The snake had flicked its tongue, tasted my presence in the air, then languorously turned away. Its scaly shimmer slipped soundlessly beneath the wooden step, right by my feet. I finally breathed again, into the silence. Silence, like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

“What are you going to do now? Do you regret moving to the bush?” My friend questioned that night, perhaps horrified and fascinated because she, too, had recently moved from the city.

“Well, I wish my husband would keep the back door closed!”

Hubby had tried to soothe me, saying snakes don’t go inside.

They bloody might. Why wouldn’t they, when it’s cool and quiet in the middle of the day. When we’re using the mower on the back lawn, stamping around and dragging pot plants about?

My husband’s behaviour didn’t change at all. Still walking around in bare feet. Me, in comparison, for the first whole week ‘post-snake’, chose knee-high gumboots to accessorise my usual sarong when venturing down the stairs to the spa at night. I also spent three days stomping up and down the stairs in work boots and jeans, generally creating as much ruckus as possible.

A week later and we hadn’t seen the snake again. I sought the advice of the experts on the Australian Snake Identification, Education + Advocacy Facebook group.

“Is it likely the snake has moved on?”

“To be sure, you should replace the wooden deck and staircase with concrete,” was the advice. “You have chickens which attract rodents, which attract snakes. You have water, frogs, and a safe space for snakes to hide and hunt. But remember, Eastern Browns don’t like movement. They’ll get out of your way before you even know they’re there. Just look down before you step down. It is possible to cohabitate with them.”

Cohabitate with the second deadliest snake in the world?

Remodelling the back deck and stairs IS on the renovation list – somewhere between the priorities of fencing, more water tanks, retaining walls and building another shed.

I now know snakes are definitely around, instead of possibly around. I’ve also learnt they don’t chase you. Just look out for them, and don’t step on them.

Life continued for another week.

I now look down before I step down. I’ve calmed down. I’ve reverted to wearing thongs outside.

Then, yesterday, as I looked down, a scaly scurry. Something half-seen slipped from the sunny step beneath my feet. A huge blue tongue lizard.

Another question for the Facebook snake advocacy group.

“There’s a big blue tongue living right where the Eastern Brown was. Does this mean the snake has moved on?”

“Possibly,” was the reply, “but not necessarily. Eastern Browns and Blue Tongues can cohabitate quite happily.”

I may be cohabitating with a snake. And a Blue Tongue.

Photo credit: Shane Walsh, who takes wonderful photos and advocates for cohabitating with wildlife.

Notes:

Even if we are cohabitating, we are never going to be friends. There’s a snake bite kit handy, just in case.

For international readers, ‘thongs’ in Australia generally means ‘flip flops’.

Tag: Wildlife

Feathered families – friendships with magpies

Cohabitating with nature