This gorgeous bird, sporting feathers of bright crimson and deep blue, is a frequent visitor to our yard and adores camellia blossoms.

A rosella is a type of parrot, and Robin Hill speculates in his book Australian Birds that the name derived from “Rose Hill,” because the parrots were first sighted in the Rose Hill district of Sydney. There are eight types of rosellas in Australia. They vary in appearance, but the crimson rosella that lives in Eastern Australia is among the most vibrant.  
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In contrast to the the rest of its plumage, the back of the crimson rosella has a striking pattern, as Genevieve Osborne noted in her poem “Crimson Rosella.” 

​A breeding pair nests high in a tree, in a natural cavity lined with wood chips and dust. The female crimson rosella lays five to eight eggs and incubates them. Both parents feed the nestlings after they have hatched. The young birds stay with the parents for around 35 days. 

Juvenile crimson rosellas have green feathers that they keep until they’re more than a year old. They almost look like a different bird. 

I generally see crimson rosellas in groups of two or three, foraging on the ground or in trees. They eat seeds from gum trees, grasses, and shrubs. They also eat insects and some tree blossoms and drink nectar from some flowers. They are drawn to backyards with native plants and trees.

Happy to visit our feeder, they eat parrot seed mix, peanut pieces, and fruit like blueberries, grapes, and pieces of apple, melon, and pear. I have read that crimson rosellas can even be fed by hand, but I haven’t tried that yet.

This video has a closer look at this lovely bird in action.

Crimson rosellas are good neighbors, and I’m always happy when they visit because they eat insects and pollinate blossoms.

The organization Pets in the Park provides free vet care for pets belonging to homeless people. I volunteer at the monthly outdoor clinics for the Canberra chapter. When the COVID-19 shut-down hit Australia after 20 March, the monthly clinics closed. 

Pets in the Park started in Sydney in 2009 and has spread across Australia. The monthly clinics in Canberra began in March 2017. For those living on the streets in Canberra, pets can be their closest companions; they’re crucial for mental health. The health checks for the pets include free vaccinations and worming along with examinations for lumps or other medical conditions.

In a pandemic, additional barriers affect the clients of Pets in the Park. You can’t isolate at home if you don’t have one. It’s hard to practice good hand hygiene if you don’t have ready access to soap and water. People living in cars may be traveling to hotspot areas and are unlikely to have a COVID-19 app to help with contact tracing.

The overriding question for Pets in the Park was: how can we provide safe services to our clients in this environment? Pets in the Park started working with the state government to develop a protocol that would help keep everyone safe. After five months off, the monthly clinic reopened on 2 August with new procedures.

​All volunteers wore masks, while the vets and nurses wore gloves as well. We received a COVID safety brief, and a dedicated COVID officer was there to make sure everyone followed the new procedures. In our outdoor clinic, treatment areas were roped off, as was an open-air waiting area. We also had a designated intake area and admission area, with standing places marked in tape to encourage proper social distancing. Each treatment area had a folding chair for the client an appropriate distance away from the examining table.  

New guidelines for clients included:

Working as an administrative volunteer, I was nervous about this reopening, particularly about asking people to wear masks. While not the norm here, Australia has its share of anti-maskers. 

Turns out I had no reason for concern: both the staff and clients performed remarkably well. Everyone was polite, kind, and compliant. (The rule we all found hardest to observe was the no-hugging and no-petting—it was just so nice to see everyone again.) We took care of 16 dogs, 2 cats, and 2 birds.

I am honored to contribute to the well-being of so many beloved pets, who give unconditional love and companionship to their people. Looking forward to next month’s clinic!

​All photos courtesy of Pets in the Park

On our first day in our new home, a neighbor asked for help rounding up chooks, or chickens. Now, months later, I cultivated a closer acquaintance with those same three chooks when our neighbors went on holiday.
 
Keeping backyard chooks is popular in Australia, especially now with the coming of COVID-19. Although my neighbors have had their chooks for several years, many others rushed out to buy them in the early months of the pandemic, fearing shortages of supermarket eggs. Chickens were in short supply: one Tasmanian farm owner sold 100 to 200 chickens a day.
 
The hens I looked after greeted me daily with clucks, soft trills, and sounds that were almost like purring. They were easy to care for—a little feed, ample water, and occasional vegetable scraps—and they were happy. Mealworms were a special treat.
 
Freed from their coop, they foraged industriously in their enclosure. 

​There was a definite rhythm they observed: dig, dig, peck. Repeat. Here are examples of Peggy’s technique.

To my surprise, each of these ladies had her own strong personality. I always wondered where the phrase “pecking order” came from, and now I have seen it in action. First used in 1921, the term originally described the hierarchy in a flock of birds. Later, the definition expanded to include human hierarchies, often in business. While the pecking order helps hens to know how they fit within the flock, sometimes finding their place can be painful, even violent.
 
Thankfully, these chooks mostly get along at feeding time, with no clear hierarchy.

While Hazel, the largest and most adventurous, appears to be the leader, Peggy is the most irritable and likely to peck the other two. Gingernut, who is the most interested in people, is a follower. She never starts a fight but will defend herself. I knew where I stood in this hierarchy; all three felt free to peck my legs if I failed to produce the mealworms fast enough.

We all rubbed along pretty well. And I must have done something right—they rewarded me with fresh eggs near the end of my time with them.

Every year around this time, I face my ambivalence about kangaroo culling. In a kangaroo cull, a certain number of kangaroos are killed every year to keep the overall numbers down. Our nature reserves are closed at night to allow hunters to come in and shoot kangaroos. Normally, the cull starts sometime in May and lasts until they reach the quota. Last year, a record 4,035 Eastern Grey kangaroos were culled from the nature reserves in the Australian Capital Territory (ACT), where I live. 

I’d hoped the kangaroos would get a break this year, after the bushfires and severe drought. I imagined that a lot of kangaroos in the ACT had already died. However, the ACT government decided to belatedly hold the cull, sparing only Tidbinbilla and Namadgi because of the recent bush fires there. The cull started this week. 

According to the ACT government, annual culls are needed to protect native grassy woodlands from the effects of too much kangaroo grazing. When the land is overgrazed by kangaroos, particularly in dry conditions, the ecosystems can’t support food and shelter for small native reptiles, insects, mammals, and ground-feeding birds. The drought exacerbated problems in the nature reserves, with too many kangaroos overgrazing land that is already significantly stressed. There’s not enough food for the kangaroos, let alone the other animals that depend on the grassy woodlands.

The number to be culled is based on what each reserve area should be able to support. This year, that number is 1,958, more than 50 percent lower than last year. Ironically, the lower number is due to COVID-19 social distancing measures. Keeping staff and contractors safe during the limited time that female kangaroos are less likely to have joeys in their pouches (up to 31 July) means that fewer kangaroos can be taken this year. Unlike some of the other Australian states, ACT does not cull kangaroos for commercial purposes, like for human consumption or pet food.

I don’t know how I feel about this. Anyone who has been reading this blog knows I’m a big softie for Australian animals, especially kangaroos. For nearly three years, I’ve seen them every day on my walks. They are like neighbors to me. On the other hand, I’m trying hard not to be the Ugly American who criticizes what they don’t understand. Kangaroo numbers can be stunning. In April 2018, I counted 109 of them in a two-mile walk in our reserve. I don’t want them to starve, suffering a slow, painful death. They have no natural predators, with the dingos gone, and many of my Australian friends consider kangaroos to be pests.

When food and water is scarce, kangaroos venture down from the reserves into the neighborhoods, inevitably colliding with cars. Canberra has been named the top city for animal collisions for the third year in a row with 670 (96 percent) of the 698 collisions involving kangaroos. As a pedestrian, I’ve witnessed a kangaroo hit by a car, struggling on the street to rise, only to be put down when help arrived. And yet, the culls drive them down into the neighborhoods as well.

The ACT Government website notes they are researching and using fertility controls, including an infertility injection that lasts for 10 years. The website says the government hopes to move to nonlethal methods like these. However, an ACT Parks and Conservation ranger told me last season—as she arrived to conceal a blood stain on the trail a hunter had left behind the night before—that sterilization methods are so prohibitively expensive that culling will still be needed.

There is some dispute about how humane the deaths are. Hunters are licensed, and there’s a Code of Practice for non-commercial shooting that must be followed to make sure the kangaroo’s death is “sudden and humane.” Guidelines describe the type of weapons and ammunition to be used, and how the shot must be taken. The timing of the cull should minimize the chance of females having joeys in the pouch, and hunters are supposed to avoid killing them. However, if a female is killed, and there are young in the pouch, the Code requires they be killed as well by “a single forceful blow to the base of the skull.” While the RSPCA claims that non-commercial shooters aren’t required to pass a test, the ACT Government states they must pass “a challenging marksmanship accuracy test” as well as a test on the “National Code of Practice and a macropod identification test.” 

So all this I know in my head. My heart is not that objective. I’ve seen mothers caring for their joeys and juveniles playing together, zipping around after a rain and bounding right up to me. I’ve seen a large male kangaroo at dawn during the cull, fleeing the reserve for my neighborhood in an absolute panic, kicking up a spray of dirt with each frantic hop. 

In the end, who am I to decide what's best? All I know is that I’m uncomfortable and still haven’t come to terms with a yearly cull. 

With the museums still closed, I’m going farther afield and finding art in unexpected places. To the northwest of Canberra is the National Arboretum, which stretches over 618 acres. One of the world’s largest collections of rare, endangered, and significant trees, it’s also home to some interesting works of art.
 
On the trail to the Himalayan Cedar Forest, at the top of the hill, is an arresting sight.

The sculpture spells out "wide brown land" in cursive and frames the hills marking Canberra's western and southern boundaries. The sculpture celebrates this piece of a poem called "My Country," written by Dorothea Mackellar in 1908:

Mackellar wrote the poem at age 22, when she was living in England and homesick for Australia. First published in London, “My Country” quickly became one of Australia's best-known poems.
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The sculpture, created in steel by Marcus Tatton, Futago Design Studios, and Chris Viney in 2010 was inspired by Mackellar’s own cursive handwriting.
 
Looking at the sculpture up close, or from the back, it becomes an intriguing abstract squiggle.

And on sunny weekends, children can’t resist climbing all over the sculpture. Neither could our dog.

While I miss the museums and galleries, I’m thankful for other ways to experience art in these challenging times.

Large, mostly black birds with bright yellow eyes, currawongs aren’t showy like Australian parrots, and they don’t have the swaggering personality of magpies (although they are often mistaken for them). Someone I read called currawongs the foxes of the bird world. I’d agree—particularly when I’m staring into those watchful, wily eyes. Like foxes, they have adapted well to humans and are persistent predators.
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The bird’s name comes from its call, which sounds like “curra-wong, curra-wong.” Although Australia has several types of currawongs, I’m focusing on the pied currawong, since it’s the one that lives near me. The pied currawong is black, with white under the tail and near the tips of its wings. It has a large black bill, with dark grey legs. The males and females look alike, but the juveniles are greyer and fluffier.

Pied currawongs eat almost anything—small birds, young birds, lizards, young possums, insects, berries—even roadkill. They sometimes store their prey in a makeshift larder to eat later, hanging it on a hook or storing it in a crevice or tree fork.

Both males and females gather sticks and grasses for their nest, but the female builds it in a high tree fork. The male feeds the female while she incubates the eggs and feeds the chicks after they hatch.

Currawongs are not popular birds. My next-door neighbor, for example, loathes them because they can decimate the population of smaller birds. Poet Judith Wright characterized a currawong couple as a gangster and a moll.
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However, they are voracious eaters of harmful insects and clean up carrion as well. Like magpies, currawongs are playful. This currawong comes by my office window nearly every day to play peekaboo.

Magpies and currawongs have a long history of working together. One story from the indigenous peoples of Australia says that currawongs ended a drought by flying to find a Cloud Spirit to make some rain. They brought one back, led home by the magpie’s song.

Sometimes they even sing together. 
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Although currawongs may have a terrible reputation, they are still welcome visitors to my backyard.

Even though dawn services will not be held this year, and the Australian War Memorial is closed, there are other ways to celebrate ANZAC Day. One idea is to go on a sculpture hunt on the Memorial’s grounds to remember that animals have also served in wars.
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The Australian War Memorial Sculpture Garden, found on the west side of the Memorial, opened in 1999. Included among its many commemorative works and memorials are those that honor different animals.

​The newest arrival is the Military Working Dogs Memorial, which commemorates all military working dogs and their handlers. The sculpture, called Circling into Sleep, by Steven Holland, is a series of 37 bronze paw prints arranged to represent a dog circling before lying down to sleep. 

The remains of Aussie, a Labrador in the Explosive Detection Dog Team, were interred here. Aussie was deployed four times to Afghanistan and then retired. He died in 2017 at 16 years old.

​​In the same area is a plaque that commemorates the many thousands of Australian pigeons and their handlers in the Australian Corps of Signals. They helped to maintain communications during the Second World War.

Nearest the main entrance to the Memorial is Peter Corlett’s sculpture Simpson and his Donkey, 1915. John Simpson Kirkpatrick may be Australia’s most famous soldier. A stretcher bearer at Gallipoli, he and his donkey carried water up Shrapnel Gully and brought the wounded back down to the beach on Anzac Cove. A book  by Jackie French tells the full story about the donkey who carried the wounded.

​Outside the Sculpture Garden, at the entrance to Poppy’s Café, is my favorite sculpture. Elevation of the Senses, by Ewan Coates, honors the contributions made by Explosive Detection Dogs and their handlers. The tunnel at the sculpture’s base symbolizes the dogs’ rigorous training, and the rocky outcrops represent deployments to foreign lands. The dog is elevated, making eye contact with the handler, emphasizing the bond the two share.  

​​Looking to the right, I spotted a low-key reminder that dogs are welcome here too. 

Other ideas for remembering ANZAC Day include walking along ANZAC Parade or exploring the Memorial without going anywhere through their innovative Museum at Home program. 

These strange times provoke anxiety, and I’ve discovered that nature—even if it’s just what I can see from my front veranda—is indeed calming. The view forces me to slow down and appreciate the infinite leisure that Thoreau found.
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The view from my veranda encompasses the trees around us, a quiet street, the endless sky, and mountains out in the distance.

​The sky is ever-changing.

​And the birds keep me company.

I’m not the only avid bird watcher in the family.​

I revel in the splashes of color from the native bottlebrush, autumn leaves, and flowering rosemary far below.

As I wrote in a previous post, when my world narrowed to my home and its surroundings, my view became deeper rather than broader.

The world’s museums may be closed, but that doesn’t mean I can’t experience art.
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On the north side of Canberra is Haig Park, a lovely bit of underutilized green space. The park was named to honor Earl Haig, the Commander-in-Chief of the British Expeditionary Forces during the First World War.

As part of an ongoing program to make the park more appealing to Canberrans, the call went out for more Silver Sprayers to create street art. The Silver Sprayers are a group of older Canberrans, aged 55 and over, who train with professional street artists in workshops and then paint their own public designs. They started in 2018 as part of the ACT government’s Streetwise community art program, and their art has brightened public spaces in southern suburbs like Woden.
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In late September, they painted an old depot, the entrance to public toilets, and various utility boxes. 

The results are colorful and captivating, a welcome excuse in the middle of some essential trip to stop and linger in the park for just a moment on a sunny morning. 

Along with everyone else, we’re staying at home to “flatten the curve” in this strange beginning of 2020. When my horizon shrank to my house and the little patch of ground on which it rests, I became a close observer of what surrounds me. My backyard became my Walden Pond.

My backyard is sheltered and private, an appealing facsimile of rambling nature. The previous owners enjoyed all kinds of plants and popped into a bare space anything they found eye-catching. They created a pleasing jumble of green.

They loved succulents, and so do I, all those weird and wonderful shapes. This one looks like a miniature alien from Little Shop of Horrors. 

​I retreat to the backyard, escaping from the daily news to savor the last colors of autumn. 

Or to watch the birds forage and the bees busy at work. 

Sometimes I’ll spot the occasional skink, but I’m never fast enough to catch a photo.
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The backyard also includes a decaying bird bath the birds never use and something that looks like the skeletal remains of an umbrella pulled inside-out by the wind. It’s for drying clothes outside— which everyone does here—but I haven’t the knack of it yet. My American addiction to a clothes dryer persists.

I have never been a gardener—I have a black thumb rather than a green one—so I never know what anything is called. Some things I recognize though, like a geranium, rosemary, and a lemon tree. And we may have a bay tree.