My Place by Sally Morgan Page B

small nest. I knew there was no chance of returning him up there, it was far too high, and, even if I did, the mother might smell human on her baby and kick him out. I’d heard of animals doing that, birds might be the same. There was only one thing I could do, take him home.
    When Mum saw the bulge in the pocket of my dress, the sighed, ‘Oh no, what have you got in there?’
    I showed her the bird. ‘I’m going to call him Muddy,’ I said optimistically. I knew Mum was fed up with me bringing home strays.
    â€˜No more pets, Sally. I told you, no more pets. You kids bring them home and I’m the one that ends up feeding them.’
    â€˜But he’s only a baby. I promise I’ll look after him.’
    â€˜What have you got there?’ Nan said as she entered the fray.
    â€˜It’s a baby mudlark, Nan, fell out of a tree. Mum wants to kick it out.’
    â€˜Sally, I do not!’
    â€˜Then you’ll let me keep it?’
    â€˜Oh … all right, but you have to look after it. I’m not having anything to do with it.’
    â€˜Aah, ya better with dogs, anyway.’ Mum had a natural rapport with dogs.
    â€˜You know, Sally, there might be something wrong with that bird. I’ve heard of mothers getting rid of babies for that reason. He might not live, he’s very small.’
    â€˜Hmmph, he’ll be all right,’ said Nan, ‘bit of food, make sure he’s warm at night, that’s all he needs.’ Nan loved birds, no one was allowed to say a word against her bantam hens, and even when her favourite pink and grey galah bit off half the top of Jill’s finger, it was Jill’s fault, not cocky’s.
    I devised my own method of feeding Muddy. I simply placed a small piece of meat on the end of my finger and then stuck my finger down his throat. The technique seemed to suit him, because in no time at all he’d grown into a fine, healthy bird. I was his mother and he was my pal, and while our greatest adventure together was no more than running errands to the corner shop, in my mind, we experienced far more exciting escapades. About that time, I was into reading Famous Five books, and Muddy fulfilled the role of Timmy, George’s dog.
    At night, Mud slept on a chair in my room. Jill didn’t like him much.
    â€˜Don’t put him next to my bed, he might poop on me, and if I’m asleep, I won’t be able to wipe it off.’ She flung herself under the rugs, leaving me to study her lumpy figure in resentment.
    I wonder if I could make him poop on her, I thought. I glancedat Mud, he was perched in his usual place, his feet entwined around the narrow rung across the chair back next to my bed. Better not encourage him, I decided, Mum would never forgive me. Still, I could always claim it was an accident. With that thought, I yawned and snuggled down. ‘Night Mud,’ I whispered. He stared back, his eyes and beak intense. I often wished birds could talk. I was considering trying to teach Mud some sign language. My eyes grew heavy and gradually closed. I smiled. Mud raised his left claw twice. Yes! Twice for yes and once for no! I knew he could do it. That night, I dreamt of all the tricks I would teach him. What a show that would be, Mud and me, stars!
    The next morning, I awoke to silence, I yawned and stretched. Normally, Muddy’s shrill, hungry calls disturbed my sleep; this morning, there were none. I glanced at his chair, Mud was hanging upside down. I half smiled. What’s he doing, I thought. Must be a new trick.
    â€˜Birds just don’t do tricks like that, dear,’ Mum explained to me later.
    I felt terrible that Mud had hung stiffly upside down, not because he was concentrating, but because rigor mortis had set in.
    He joined a host of past pets buried under the fig tree in the far corner of our yard. I felt that some of my own personal status died with him. Now, when I ran errands to the corner shop,