Gaga and the Plumber (from the bird’s point of view)
Let me set the record straight right now: I am not a pet. I am a resident. There’s a difference. Pets get locked in cages. Pets get their wings clipped. Me? I’ve got a permanent, VIP, all-access pass to the entire Eastern Suburbs sky, and I choose to spend my afternoons on the back of that splintery dining chair because Dave’s kitchen has the best acoustics in the Southern Hemisphere.
My name is Kevin. Dave calls me that because he says I look like a “footy player with a bad sunburn.” Humans are weird. But Dave is my human. He fixes the dripping things, and I provide the color commentary. It’s a fair trade.
So. This particular Tuesday. The sun is hitting the gum tree just right, and I’ve just finished my morning patrol—swooping a few cockatoos, stealing a bite of grevillea nectar, the usual sovereign duties—when I glide back through the open flyscreen. And there she is.
[Menu]
The Lady… Lady Gaga to be precise.
She’s tiny for a human, with hair the color of that cheap fairy floss they sell at the Easter Show, and she’s wearing pants that look like a disco ball had a fight with a pajama factory. She’s holding my wooden spoon. I puff up my chest immediately. This is my kitchen. I need to establish dominance.
I land on the window frame and do my signature move: a sharp “Wheep-wheep-CHIRRUP?” It translates roughly to, “State your business, glitter lady.”
She doesn’t flinch. She just turns those giant pale eyes on me, and she gets it. She says, “Oh, hello, your majesty.”
Alright. Points for her. She recognizes royalty.
Dave is at the bench, up to his elbows in chickpea goo. He’s telling one of his classics—something about a burst main and a council bloke who wouldn’t listen. Boring plumbing stuff, but I humor him because he gives me bits of his flatbread. I tilt my head, watching his floury hands flap around. He’s getting animated now, doing that thing where his beard wiggles.
Then the Lady speaks. She drops her voice all low and theatrical—very dramatic, very good for a bird’s ears—and she compares his pipe story to tour buses and pyrotechnics. Honestly, I have no idea what a pyro-technic is, but it sounds loud, and I like loud.
This is the part where I have to chime in. It’s my job. Dave is looking at her, she’s looking at Dave, and they’re both waiting for the punchline. So I deliver it. I let out a soft, questioning “Creee?”—a little trill that says, “Is she for real, Dave?”
Dave points his knife at me. “See? Kevin agrees with me.”
I puff up. Of course I agree with him. He pays the rent. But I also agree with her, because she just tossed a bit of rainbow chard into the pan and it smells like heaven. I’m bipartisan. I’m a diplomacy bird.
They start trading horror stories. Dave tells her about the time he pulled a live yabby out of a drainpipe. The Lady slaps the counter and shrieks with laughter, and I am shocked—positively shocked—that she finds this acceptable dinner conversation. I do a sharp “Chack! Chack!” which is parrot for “Gross, but tell me more.”
She calls it an album title. I don’t know what an album is, but I like the sound of her voice. It has rhythm.
At one point, Dave commits a cardinal sin. He compares her famous mechanical horse—the one she rode on stage, which I have seen on Dave’s telly-box—to a sneezing animatronic pony from a musical. The audacity! The sheer disrespect!
I glance at the Lady. Her eyebrow is twitching. The tension is thick enough to spread on toast.
So I do what any good supervisor does. I lower my head, fluff my crimson chest feathers, and let out a long, descending, mournful “Ooo-ooo-ooo.”
It’s the universal burn. The sound of a career ending. The sound of a man being roasted alive in his own kitchen.
Dave throws a piece of flatbread at me, but I catch it mid-air with my foot because I am athletic and vicious. The Lady points at him and declares me the judge, jury, and executioner. I preen. Naturally.
She calls me the real star of the show.
She’s not wrong.
But here’s the thing they don’t understand: I’m not just here for the flatbread, or the warm air from the stove, or even the free entertainment. I’m here because the window is always open. The sky is always blue. I could leave at any second. I do leave—I fly out to the gum tree, I squawk at the magpies, I remind the neighborhood who’s boss.
But I always come back.
Because in this kitchen, there’s Dave, who smells like grease and kindness. And there’s the Lady, who smells like glitter and paprika. And they sit there, trading stories about busted pipes and screaming crowds, not realizing that every story needs a rhythm. A pause. A beat.
That’s me. I’m the punctuation.
The comma between their sentences. The exclamation point on their jokes. The soft little “Peep” at the end of the night, when the stew is gone, the sun is setting, and the Lady gives me one last wink before she steps out the door.
I fluff my feathers. I watch her go.
Then I turn to Dave, and I give a quiet, satisfied “Wheep.”
Good show, mate. Same time tomorrow.
The flyscreen swings shut. I am free. I am glorious. I am the crimson king of the suburbs.
And I have the best seat in the house.
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