Chapters Two & Three: House of Caws & The Lab Log
Chapter Two - House of Caws
We pull off the main road, down a quiet avenue, like a secret nook. The narrow road slopes down a hill, lined with small wooden houses and soon dead-ends into a parkland. Below the steep sloping parkland marks a U-bend in the Brisbane river. It’s all magic to me. Cassidy points as we exit the car, we are on that side of the street there.
I jump from the car, and with a questioning glance towards Cassidy, indicating is it this one? “No that’s not it, the one next door.” So, I walk uphill to the next house, separated by greenery. “No, that’s not it either,” She says, getting her things from the car.
“Well if it isn’t that house or the other house, then I’m out of houses,” I declare, lugging my bags around in confusion. I had been so excited to get in the place I got ahead of myself, and everyone else.
"It's the one in the middle, right there." she pushes through a narrow thicket and disappears into what looks like a bush between the two houses. The location of the house is truly above my expectations for how whimsical a place it could be.
Following her down into the bush, descending two unnoticed steps below the sidewalk, and an entirely canopied entryway leading to a hidden rustic dwelling. The narrow walkway has a makeshift chicken wire fence on the right side. (I would never get used to this inconspicuous street view of our hidden home, walking by and missing it for weeks).
Vegetation covers the outer walls of the house, even the front door blends in with its flaking remains of worn green paint on wood.
I reach out and open the swinging saloon-style wooden front door. I enter behind Cassidy and close the front door behind us. The right half squeaks back ajar.
“It won’t keep shut on its own without latching. But don’t close it," Cassidy warns. "Just leave it a bit open like this. The door to our house must be unlocked until everyone is home for the evening. "Don’t worry, it's a safe neighborhood, nobody comes by.”
Yeah, I bet no robber could even find this place.
“The only thing we need to worry about is the chucks getting inside . . .”
“Oh yes, I can’t wait to meet them.”
When we come into the house, we’re greeted by a cacophony of bird sounds. Tiki chimes in from Cassidy’s shoulder.
Through a goofy grin, Cassidy smiles, “These are my birds, they are welcoming us home and demanding pats.”
My room is immediately on the right by the saloon door and is a converted front porch. It has a mirror image porch room on the other side, which is presently closed and belongs to another housemate.
The first thing I see when I enter is Matt’s desk taking up most of the small room, obscured by engineering tools, levers, gears. It looks badass but there’s no room for my things except on the floor. There’s also a small rock climbing wall occupying what used to be a window between the house and porch that is now a room. Also, the fine work of Matt.
I drop my things on the floor by the single bed and glimpse the foliage from the inside, through glass pane windows as I turn around. I don’t yet suspect the adversarial wildlife, my new neighbors, who call that bush home; the rivalry between me and a "noisy Mina bird" that will take place at dawn every morning.
I gasp as I check out the rest of the house. The entry is at ground level with the back half built on stilts set into a hill. A cement basement adds support and serves as laundry, storage, and
houses a spare bedroom. It would also be a good place to house a troll. I get the impression that I now live in a South-East Asian jungle village. Between it being an old house being on stilts, with creaky wooden walls and floorboards, dapped lighting coming through screen-less windows, between creeping vines from all sides, and all rooms revolving around one central room (which I’ll call the den). Cassidy has even added to this effect by decorating with rural landscapes and tapestries from a recent trip to Nepal. Oh yeah, and the hens and parrots roaming the property.
Cassidy is in the corner of the den, attending to a giant bunch of wooden sticks tied into a parrot stand. It’s big, taking up a good portion of the room. The parrots occupy the various levels, chirping and whistling in a clashing cacophony.
As I approach, I almost trip over an orange hen, strolling through the den. “What?” “Ah, nawr! Get!” Cassidy pounces from the parrot stand to shoo the hen to the back steps. It balks a long whine I interpret like, “ahh, come on mom!” and retreats just outside, but peering inside trying for another chance.
“Aw, they are so cute, can't they come in?”
“It's only charming until they poop.”
Following the chicken, I gasp at the open view from the back stairs.
It looks like a jungle. Right in the center is an immense outstretched tree, covered in pale white bark. A breeze blows through the trees, rustling the jungle as exotic birds call out. I’m not unconvinced that a tiger wouldn’t come out if I watched it long enough.
A rustic kitchen is to the left with a view of the jungle from its high windows, and the other side, oh boy, five people, one bathroom. Between the kitchen and bath is this awkward room with the back door, and I assume it’s meant to be for a dining table, except here it's full of a stack of styrofoam, a bicycle, and a freezer.
Cassidy comes over, “Ah yeah, the styrofoam is for bird . . . parts . . . uh, the housemates hate it but there’s not much I can do sometimes with specimens before they make it to the lab.” So, it’s also a mad science house. Lots of personality here. “Speaking of, when are you going to the lab? I can’t wait to check it out!”
“Sure, can go tonight and take these specimens. I know the housemates will appreciate getting these out.”
“But first, I’ll show you how to take the parrots to the outside aviary. They’ve been inside all day and could use some time outside.” She’s got lots of chores around here, I don’t know how she has time for a Ph.D., a paid job, and all these pets and house chores.
I meet the smaller cockatiels: Albert, Peter, and Casper. I can barely tell them apart. Albert, with the reddest cheeks, mimics a ringing phone, hoping for attention. Peter, the old one, whistles a random song. The darkest gray cockatiel, Casper, quickly chirps and takes a shine to me. Casper compulsively sings “pop goes the weasel”, which can also be triggered by standing next to soft objects his size, like a hand towel or slipper.
Cassidy explains that Casper is new, and hasn’t decided favorites yet. Suddenly he hops on my shoulder. It’s an honor, being chosen as the bird’s love, but I also feel a slight pang of sorrow for the day I will leave him, for I worry he has chosen the wrong favorite.
Tiki is considerably larger and more colorful than the cockatiels.
All the birds are people-oriented, and one of them flaps off the stand, aiming for the nearby couch where Cassidy and I are sitting. They turn so we can scratch their delicate little heads. They love scratches at the base of his neck, but it feels unsettling for my human fingers to get in there; scratching beneath the fluffy yellow head feathers where I can feel the slim neck vertebrae and bird skull.
As a larger parrot species, Tiki has a distinct intelligence and personality. One problem with parrots— as anyone who has visited a friend with a parrot knows— parrots bond to a single person, to whom they give their sole affections. Everyone else gets bitten and hissed at. I have never lived with a parrot before, but Tiki is different than your average parrot. He is open, friendly, and playful— like a shoe sized golden retriever.
Cassidy explains Parrot psychology, “Young parrots start out sweet, with an open mind for making friends. Once a parrot reaches maturity, they start to understand hierarchy. Best case scenario, a well-adjusted domesticated parrot sees the human owner as the alpha in his flock, and puts himself second, so naturally every other human must be kept below him in the hierarchy. That’s why he bites and snaps at everyone who isn’t the owner.”
Thus, in my opinion stands a gaping flaw in parrot ownership.
“ . . .But Tiki loves everyone,” Cassidy continues, “except the downstairs housemate, we don’t know what triggers that. Tiki’s also phobic of jangling keys. Got to be careful to keep keys away or he will attack!”
Tiki rolls around and plays with anything nearby. He squawks phrases, "Hiya-tiki!", "woo hoo!", "waaow!" as is not unusual for a lorikeet. They tend to pick up any common words their owners say with emphasis around them, such as those. I watch Tiki climb all over Cassidy— up and down her body, head to toe. Tiki nudges her neck with his bright red beak, which always looks like it’s smiling. He demands Cassidy grab and flip him over. As she flips him into a loop he utters a gleeful "woo!". She scratches his neon orange and blue belly, then presses air onto him with loud fart sounds, like one does to a toddler. She then holds him like a microphone that sings tunes along with her.
Tiki is shy with me at first, but within a couple of days he is pleading for my shoulder, hopping on and looking for adventure.
I follow Cassidy and soon learn the proper transport of the cockatiels between the outdoor and indoor areas. Two parakeets cling to my chest. Their little hearts beat up against mine as I gingerly cup them in my hands for cover and walk from the living room, out the back door.
I concentrate not to fall down the stairs as the hens come clucking over with interest. It’s a bare muddy backyard with high weeds popping up sporadically and six clucking orange chooks, cooing and bobbing around our feet. Across the muddy garden, I safely close myself inside the walk-in aviary.
There are strict rules for outdoor safety. It’s a classic Australian problem—the local environment is always trying to eat their pets. Local parrot species include crimson rosella, eastern rosella, galah, large white cockatoos, and the rainbow lorikeet, like Tiki. They are all gorgeous, and deadly to cockatiels— who they kill on sight! Since cockatiels are a desert species, they act like antibodies, purging invasive species.
Apparently, they will even snatch the cockatiels off your shoulder to a horrifying death. I was wondering about Tiki, as a local, if he ever hangs out with the flocks. Apparently, like humans, the birds have culture, and they find Tiki’s persona socially awkward. A young bird will occasionally come out of curiosity, then quickly retreated, therefore dubbing him a freak. Poor Tiki.
“So, they are safe to leave inside the aviary overnight?” I ask.
“I mean, there are always snakes to worry about . . . We have heaps of snake species in the gully.”
“Just wonderful . . .” I pout my lips. Nothing quite like heaps of snakes to welcome me to Australia.
“Anyway, let's go get our haul of birds for the lab.”
The sun begins to set, and soon it’s time to head to the lab.
Chapter Three: The Lab Log
We walk to the lab from our house, traversing the parklands towards the towering bridge. From the top of the bridge, we gaze out at the view of the distant Brisbane cityscape. The night air smells sweet with night blooming flowers. The chirping of insects serenades us as the water below shimmers from the city lights.
The bridge over the river is so long, it takes a full fifteen minutes just to cross it. We each lug a large bag containing deceased mystery birds. I haven’t looked inside my bag yet, but Cassidy assures me I will see them shortly in the lab. I stop part way a few times to reposition my burden, but eventually, we finally arrive at the other shore to the campus parklands.
Unlike the four-year college system in America, college in Australia only goes for three years, and top students can opt into their fourth year, called Honors, which includes a research project. Cassidy, age 20, a few years ahead, had only recently started this Honors research project in biology.
The wooden boardwalk clunks underfoot as we walk the length of the dark lakes, lit only sparingly by floor lamps. During the day, the lake habitat is a great place to see wildlife, including marine birds, cormorants, ducks, moorhens, herons, egrets, and more. Most of its marine bird inhabitants are diurnal, meaning active in the day. We hear the pulsing clicks of a tawny frogmouth, a bird which looks more like a sesame street puppet than a real bird. It calls out like a cackling snickering from a tree in the dense brush between the lakes. He is another example of an Australian animal named for its literal description— a brown owl-like nocturnal bird with a broad frog-like grin. I’d care to bet they have the world’s widest mouth on any bird.
Over the month it would become a little game to point out birds from our lab. “We dissected that one, that one, him over there . . . all of those . . .” like a strange menu.
We arrive at the far corner of campus, to the biology building, about twenty-five minutes after leaving the house. It feels much longer while carrying heavy black sacks full of frozen dead birds.
Cassidy has contracts with various wildlife sanctuaries, zoos, animal hospitals, and shelters within a 3-hour driving radius to The Uni. She checks in with the locations on her list every couple of days or gets a call when deceased specimens are found. Then she picks up the frozen animals and prepares them for her ornithological work. Cassidy's research focuses on the use of plastic and the ecosystem, and how it affects the digestive system of birds.
Cassidy leads me to what's known as the "cold room" to deposit the specimens we lugged from her home freezer. This place is insane! I’m amazed to observe that the cold room is an animal morgue. I’m in what is basically a giant walk-in fridge full of preserved rare and exotic animals for scientific interest. Shelves are stacked high with dozens of cardboard and plastic boxes with labels like, “sea turtles date 5/15”, “wallaby date 12/8”, “platypus x3 For Justin, date 4/2”.
The back of the cold room is an even colder room, for deceased animals that need to stay ultra-chilly. It's an awesome place, with a creepy sci-fi quality about it.
“Who knows what these scientists are going to do with all these rare animals! All inspiration possibilities in here! You know, for a good story plot.” I attempt to over-explain to Cassidy, not to think I’m crazy.
“Wouldn’t it be cool if we were dissecting some of those other animals in here! Much cooler than birds . . .”
Cassidy shakes her head, “Ah, you’d think so now— but you’d be thankful to me later. Dissecting birds is heaps less stinky and gross than any mammal or sea turtle. You wouldn’t want to work on them, then . . .”
I hadn’t thought of that, but I trust her opinion on guts.
Cassidy turns on the lights in the lab, revealing an impressive array of unique birds of different shapes, body types, and colors. Lined up on the lab floor, some resting neatly on plastic bags and others on styrofoam boxes.
“Such a beautiful introduction to the world of diverse Australian birds!” I exclaim, “and on my first night of work to kick off the months! Thanks, Cassidy, it is so nice of you to set all this up for me, what an entrance! Such splendor, look at all this!” I say, bending beside a huge white crane.
Cassidy admits, a hand on the back of her neck, “Actually it was unintentional, I just had them laid out like that so that they would defrost in time. Still, we do this every night with the next round of birds, and it is always impressive. I never know what species we will get next.”
“But were you saving up specimens since you knew I was coming, to be your extra pair of hands?” I urge.
“No,” Cassidy replies in her logical style, as if stating a casual fact. I find her straightforward way both charming and befuddling. The downside is I get a limited amount of empathy from her on certain things— but on the other hand, the logical style is refreshing and honest, and I can always be sure she never means any offense.
I tie my hair back into a tight ponytail, matching Cassidy’s. That’s why it’s lab protocol. One should keep loose bits of hair away from dead things and chemicals. Cassidy always keeps her hair up like this, I recall she once said, “to rebel against trying to look too pretty”.
Cassidy gropes the birds’ chests to determine their level of defrosting, while I remark in jest, “Well, at least the room only slightly smells of dead things!”
“Actually, this is a fish lab, so that explains the smell. My birds actually don’t smell if they aren’t rotting, and most of them are frozen upon death, so they don’t smell even when we thaw them for dissection. Much like any meat, you might eat. I mean, not me personally. But a non vegetarian! If we got roadkill, it might have been rotting for a few days before they picked it up— those are the main stinkers! You can leave those to me though, I’ll try to give you the less stinky ones since it is my responsibility and all.”
“That's very nice of you, thanks!”
“No problem! don’t want to scare you off before you’ve even started.” We both laugh. “Okay now let’s get started!” Cassidy declares.
We kneel by the far end of the row of birds, and Cassidy starts the tour. She is right, there isn’t much smell, only the fresh earthy tones from where the birds had lived. Some birds are palm-sized, such as the curlew, a dainty beach walker with a proboscis beak-like a fishing butterfly. Others are huge, like the enormous migratory arctic frigate bird, with jet black feathers, round fluffy head, and tube-nosed on his fat grey beak. This juvenile is two feet long, with a wingspan of six feet. This bird is built to soar from Australia to Antarctica. Cassidy, handling the birds with care, explains, “See how some have nose holes in the beak, and others have a separate tube nose on top of the beak? That lets you know if a bird stays local or flies big distances. The tube is for filtering the air so it can stay at high altitudes on long migrations.” Any migratory bird we get is very rare. Most migratory birds die out at sea, and few ever end up in the care of wildlife facilities. That’s why of two-hundred qualifying species to study, I’ve dissected only forty or so.”
Among the rows, we also have a variety of fishing birds. A black cormorant which looks like a dragon-duck hybrid, an elegant white-face egret, and a darter— which is an elegant “origami” bird, with a long neck and a four-inch needle-shaped beak. We have a heavier relative, the gannet, billowy-white with a golden head and a face like a fighter-pilot who catches fish by dive-bombing the sea, beak aimed straight down.
We have scavenging birds such as oystercatchers, terns, gulls, and ibis. The latter is indeed the long legged with a long sloping beak, worshipped by ancient Egyptians-- but is so common in Australia, often stealing food from picnickers and garbage dumps, earning itself the unflattering name “dump bird” or “bin chicken”.
I recall my first trip to Australia, years ago when my family had been in town briefly. We toured the university and bought lunch to eat outside in the courtyard. An Ibis swooped down, its long curved black beak opened like a pair of chopsticks. It plucked the slice of pizza right out of my sister’s hands, held aloft, landing briefly on the table just long enough to cause mayhem as objects slid around, and we got a good laugh at the larger-than-chicken-sized beast. Then it flew off again with her lunch. Since then, I’ve heard stories of Ibis lifting everything from cookies to entire sandwiches off people.
On some lab trips, we admire the lake birds outside, including hen-like coots, brown wood ducks, dainty little snipes, goofy purple moorhens, proboscis-billed curlews, stilt legged yellow-masked lapwings, and the occasional black swan or spoonbill. I stand for the first time in the lab, watching Cassidy handle her birds so tenderly, and can't help but be in awe. Her love and fascination are so genuine that it's contagious. I find she never comes off pretentious
while sharing her knowledge about birds. Her interest is intrinsic, never with the slightest push to impress. I’d later witness Cassidy freezing without warning while in public, mesmerized by some bush bird.
Cassidy explains how the lab process goes. "The main purpose is to search the digestive system for evidence of plastic in their gut. Don’t worry, I’ll warn you when it gets graphic.” Before any dissection, we must measure each bird’s body proportions, a perfect job to help me get acquainted. Cassidy gave me a measuring tool and spreadsheet on a clipboard. Now is when I warn that it gets a tad graphic from here to the end of the chapter, though I’ve tried to keep it minimal . . .
I slip on a pair of disposable gloves, though it isn’t necessary for this task. I admit it feels gross at first. I stay at arm’s length, touching things minimally, but mentally by the end of the row that night, I am more comfortable around them.
I rationalize that they are fluffy creatures, and the gross part is inside, and Cassidy's problem. Their eyes are closed, giving them a peaceful, sleepy appearance. I like that they are far less threatening than live birds— what with the possibility of hissing, biting and wing flapping. These birds allow me to get close to their interesting bodies in a way I could never do with a live bird, allowing me to appreciate these animals for the first time in my life.
I lean over Cassidy and her metal tray containing a wood duck. “Here comes the only smell. When I open their innards . . . stomach contents usually smell okay. Expect this one, we had been eating grass”. I lean in and sniff. The intense smell of wet grass barrels up my nostrils and is far from pleasant.
She searches the contents for plastic bits and says, “Other times, you get that powerful fishy smell, like in a pelican’s gut. It also stinks if I nick the fecal tract— which obviously holds the
poo. I try to avoid doing that, but sometimes it's unavoidable it when digging around in here looking for their gender. Sex organs are surprisingly hard to find. But I have to check for the data unless it's a species with obvious sexual dimorphism— when the male and female look different.”
“Have you ever found un-laid eggs inside?” I inquire.
“Naw. I did find a tumor once or twice though.”
“Weird. I’d like to see that . . . ooh, have you ever seen that famous labyrinth-like duck vagina we hear so much about?”
“Oh yeah, we can certainly check! I never sex-check with the ducks because they fall into that easy gender group.”
Sometimes Cassidy cut off heads and feet, which I later learn, is to taxidermy for another project for her education-based workplace, or to preserve a rare species.
“And your housemates really don’t care?”
“Naw, that is a bit of a shock for them to put up with,” Cassidy admits. “I have to leave them out to dry. They didn’t like that the first time, but they’ve learned to live around it.” She keeps them exposed atop a stack of Styrofoam boxes in the small room by the back door of the house. It’s also where the refrigerator is, so that’s a bit off-putting.
All that aside, it's quite cute watching her fuss over the birds. Whenever Cassidy acquires a rare species, she gets excited and starts fussing over it, taking time to admire the fine details of the feathers, face and wing shape.
When she finds a piece of plastic in their innards, she packages it in tin foil with the sample number and adds it to the jumbo plastic bag for later testing. The plastic analysis takes place once every few months, on an island research station— an excursion we would make near the
end of my stay-- details in a later entry. Once we deplete our supply of birds, our lab work is complete for a time.
We must now spend the next few days venturing out into the world to collect more specimens. And adventures.