Why Birds Sing is a fun, somewhat light-hearted read by Canadian author Nina Berkhout. I say ‘light-hearted’ because while there are humourous, quirky, entertaining moments, there are also moments of family drama and soul searching.
After Opera singer Dawn Woodward jeopardizes her career by competitively pushing herself too hard and injuring both her vocal cords and her reputation, she is sidelined into teaching a group of Roger-Whittaker-wannabes to whistle. At the same time, her estranged brother-in-law shows up on her doorstep looking for a place to live while he undergoes cancer treatment. As a special surprise, he brings his needy companion, a Congo African Grey parrot named Tulip. As you might predict, it’s Dawn and Tulip who form an unlikely bond, while Dawn begins to question her life and the decisions she has made.
This book seems to get a lot of things right in regards to raising an African Grey parrot. They are excellent mimickers, and are highly intelligent. They form strong bonds with their owners and can be emotionally needy as a result. They can live a long time (up to 80 years in captivity) but they don’t adjust well to being bounced around from owner to owner, so it’s important to think long-term when considering one as a pet. They need lots of mental stimulation to keep from getting bored and acting out. I can’t say I recommend adopting an exotic bird, but in fairness I did not find any site that suggested this was a terrible idea, like say adopting a monkey or a boa constrictor. So there you go.
Once again I am kind of cheating, because I wrote very briefly about this book in a previous post.
The bell woke me. I didn’t know how much time had passed. I rushed to straighten the bed, pulled the French doors closed, ran upstairs and splashed cold water on my face. Tying my knotted hair back, I opened the door.
Tariq stood at the bottom of the steps with a duffel bag. He appeared thinner and more disheveled than the last time I’d seen him, like any recently divorced man in his early forties who wasn’t taking care of himself. And he had the same stance I’d noticed on every occasion we met. Slightly stooped with his hands behind his back, like the elders of opera who paced around on stage in fur-lined robes, but did not do much singing anymore.
His hair was as thick and black as Ashraf’s, only shorter and ?ecked with grey. He was taller than his brother, his skin and eyes darker. I wanted to know how long he planned on staying and the details of his illness. At the same time I was trying to recall the melody in the dream I’d been torn from.
I said hello. He nodded wordlessly, as though he were the one on vocal rest. Then I spotted a small cage in the grass behind him. When I passed him to get a glimpse, he lowered his head and stepped aside.
I had expected a songbird but this foot-tall feathered thing looked more like a pigeon with a dull red, raggedy tail and battered wings. Part of its chest was bare, so you saw its belly moving in and out as it breathed. When I crouched down it lunged and hissed.
“Who’s this?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“Her name is Tulip,” Tariq said. “She’s a Congo African Grey parrot.”
