Yes, I am spoiled rotten. I embrace my spoiled rottenness.
Let me start with my friends, the zebra doves, the little sweet peas. Picture a smallish pigeon with a soft blue head and, of course, faint zebra stripes down its sides. These quiet neighbors peck about in groups of two or three. Every day, after lunch, Larry, Mo, and Curly descend on our patio to do the cleaning up. Evidently, Matt's a messier eater than I am.
In the afternoon, the zebra doves puff out all their feathers and sit down for a nap. Or a poop. I can't tell which, for sure, but based on the appearance of our driveway, where daily puffy conventions take place, I'd guess the latter.
Next up? The spotted dove. These ladies ("ladies" because they remind me of Mrs. Potts) are much more shy than the zebras. They stay 20 or 30 feet away and get a little alarmed if there's any commotion. Although these gals are bigger than the zebras, they are nowhere near as lard-ass-like as their Los Angeles cousins. And, of course, they wear a stole of spots in their feathers, draped gently around their necks.
Matt calls the mynas suicide birds. They do not move for bikes, cars, screaming toddlers, or a tall man madly waving his arms as he runs toward them. They look like they dipped their feet and beak into a vat of yield-sign-yellow paint; the rest of their bodies are dark brown, so the contrast is handsome. I adore their run, which is exactly how young children play horsey, in a skippy-gallopy way, and their chirp sounds something like, "Look at me! Look at me!"
The show stoppers are the cardinals. We've got the northern variety that is common to the mainland, with their gorgeous, Talbot's red feathers, beak to claw. The red-crested cardinal has the same striking red on its hood, but the rest of his body is steel-wool gray. Very, very studly fellows, but they often argue with their brown-headed wives over who saw the doomed worm first. I do not think this is very gentlemanly.
Matt spotted the bulbuls first, and I'm so glad he did. Imagine a body like a cardinal, including the lovely crest on its head, but all feathers are black and gray except for a splash of red in the tail (red-vented bulbuls) or collar (red-whiskered bulbuls). They love to hang out in the rain trees near the entrance to Ko'Olina, our neighborhood. I haven't caught them singing or chirping, so they seem rather serious to me. As I pass them, I say, "Hey, bulbul, what's up? Got any news?" They look at me. They seem so unflapable, that if I stuck out my finger, they'd consider alighting on it, but then decide against because it wouldn't be seemly.
Most surprising for me, I think, are the abundance of red junglefowl cocks. My bird book says I can find them in rural areas of the island, which I have, but the biggest assembly of the cock-a-doodle-doers show up on my run every morning, right at (yes) sunrise.
House finches abound, in comforting sweet streaky browns. While I sit and read during the last leg of Matt's swim, one inevitably tip-toes around my feet, a bit shy, but mostly just curious. These wee ones might be my favorite. I can see why the Victorians put them in cages and fed them by hand; they must have loved their timid friendship. I sure do.
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