Whistler
January 9th 2008 02:15
I’ve never had any animal that was mimetic, unless you count one of my cats you thought that he’d get more attention if he sprawled over my work table, spreading papers and books in all directions. I don’t exactly sprawl on tables and spread books and papers, but I do sometime think I could do with more attention and as a result get rather ridiculous about it.
The nearest we had to a mimetic pet was a cockatiel. In his later years, after his first companion had died, and after the other two women who came into his life and nearly killed him with their combined admiration for him had been moved on, he used to whistle. Suddenly, for no apparent reason at all, he would begin this high pitched whistling. I can’t say it was a tune (although he had been taught some musical phrase by my uncle, his former owner); it was more like a celebratory rave. The whistling would rise higher and higher and then he’d stop for breath for a brief moment, and then off he’d go again with such zest and enthusiasm that you couldn’t ignore him. He lifted your spirits more than a little, and proved the power of music in a remarkable way.
Since he was a bloke, we couldn’t name him Joy, but that’s what he gave us. Not just pleasure at the sound, but true Joy.
I'd never heard another cockatiel do this until I was in England a few months ago. It was the first night of our tenting trip, and we were typically in a totally obscure place called Huntingdon Abbots, a nice little spot beside a river with ducks, and a number of permanent houses for people to come and holiday in.
The woman in the caravan next door had put the cockatiel out in his cage while she was reading, and he started to sing. It was the same joyful whistling I'd heard so many times at home.
Perhaps it's time to get a cockatiel again, if I can bear cleaning out the bottom of the cage!
The nearest we had to a mimetic pet was a cockatiel. In his later years, after his first companion had died, and after the other two women who came into his life and nearly killed him with their combined admiration for him had been moved on, he used to whistle. Suddenly, for no apparent reason at all, he would begin this high pitched whistling. I can’t say it was a tune (although he had been taught some musical phrase by my uncle, his former owner); it was more like a celebratory rave. The whistling would rise higher and higher and then he’d stop for breath for a brief moment, and then off he’d go again with such zest and enthusiasm that you couldn’t ignore him. He lifted your spirits more than a little, and proved the power of music in a remarkable way.
Since he was a bloke, we couldn’t name him Joy, but that’s what he gave us. Not just pleasure at the sound, but true Joy.
I'd never heard another cockatiel do this until I was in England a few months ago. It was the first night of our tenting trip, and we were typically in a totally obscure place called Huntingdon Abbots, a nice little spot beside a river with ducks, and a number of permanent houses for people to come and holiday in.
The woman in the caravan next door had put the cockatiel out in his cage while she was reading, and he started to sing. It was the same joyful whistling I'd heard so many times at home.
Perhaps it's time to get a cockatiel again, if I can bear cleaning out the bottom of the cage!
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