Cockies are cunts

Cockatoos are glorious birds: large parrots, pristine white with that sulpher-yellow punk crest. They're so exotic yet common; across Australia, you can see them in huge groups. 

Where I live in outer Melburbia they gather at dawn and dusk to form a huge fluid cacophony of squawking that swirls around the skies, across the neighbourhoods. You can hear them for miles. I think it's wonderful. So I sought out info on what attracts cockies to the backyard, bought some sunflower seeds and bird toys then set myself up happily daydreaming about the friendships I'd form with my feathered neighbours.

"You're not...feeding them are you?" my more localised partner asked me one day. 

"Oh yeah!" I responded gleefully, "I've been putting seed out for two weeks now, I think I can train them to eat from my hand, maybe even speak" 

My partner looked appalled.

"You shouldn't feed them, cockies are cunts, you know. They'll destroy everything"

I laughed and shook my head. No, cockatoos are lovely, I thought, you'll see.

The first two regular cockie visitors to my yard I named Aunt Cora and Aunt Gem. They seemed to me like friendly old biddies.

After two weeks, I walked into the lounge one morning to see Aunt Cora perched right up at the window, peering in. "Good morning! May I have some seed please?" is how I imagined the interaction. Darling Aunt Cora, I thought marvelling at my skills of bird-befriending. 

I didn't go to the window right away because coffee called. Cora's dark round eye followed me as I crossed the room, passed the window and entered the kitchen. She shuffled along the window sill to keep me in view. I opened the cupboard and grabbed the coffee beans, not birdseed, and heard a crash outside. I spun around and there was Cora looking innocent. Nothing seemed amiss, she was still perched on the sill, her head tilted slightly as if to consider my reaction.

Oh-kaaay. I turned back to my coffee-making. Another crash. Cora still perched on the windowsill watching me. I watched her back. Neither of us moved for a while. 

Then, never taking her eyes from mine, she stepped slightly sideways, put her beak to a potted plant on the sill and gave a swift little push.

Crash!

She tilted her head at me. What I had previously thought a coy and sweet manouvre now revealed as a malevolent manipulation.

Her message was not "please, do you have any seed, dear human friend?" it was "MOAR SEED, BITCH. NOW!"

In conclusion: cockies are cunts.