The old tyrant has returned

Something bad happened the other day. There I was, happily counting down the sleeps until this awful year can finally be put to bed, when 2021 revealed it wasn’t quite done yet. It did this in the form of my old nemesis – a glossy feathered tyrant I thought I’d heard the last of back in January but who, it turns out, was just biding his time. It’s the tū ı¯. He’s come back.

Every spring, New Zealand’s song birds from hell traumatise the suburbs with their raucous cacophonies. While they’re supposed to get quieter from about October, my tū ı¯ obviously didn’t get the memo.

A few mornings ago the bird announced its return by sounding the alarm just before dawn – and by alarm I mean car alarm. Somehow the tū ı¯ has learnt to perfectly mimic the highpitched blaring of a vehicle in distress, doing this from the karaka tree directly outside the bedroom.

The first time around I thought it must have been a daily crime in progress waking me at such an ungodly hour. I took to peeping through the curtains, scanning the street suspiciously and sizing up the neighbours for potential tomfoolery.

When I finally identified the source I couldn’t believe it. Everybody knows tū ı¯ are rowdy little blighters, but the thing in my tree was something else. The Department of Conservation describes the birds as having ‘‘beautiful melodies’’ and, while that may be true for some, my tū ı¯ definitely does not.

Apart from the car alarm, the only other sound it makes is an extremely loud honk, something in between an airhorn and a startled mega-goose. It’s astonishing that a bird weighing just 125 grams – the equivalent of five chocolate fish – is capable of such noise, but I’ve never admired him, he makes me too tired. Every morning the tū ı¯ alarm went off and even the occasional biffed karaka berry couldn’t hit snooze.

It’s been nearly a year since the tū ı¯ first terrorised my household. His aural assaults lasted for months until one sweet day I woke to blessed silence. Occasionally I’d worry he’d moved on to harass other, less deserving, people but mostly I was just happy he was gone.

Now he’s back, and I’m not taking it lying down. ‘‘This is war,’’ I said to nobody, marching down the driveway in my pyjamas and socks. There he was, staring at me from his old branch like he’d never left.

‘‘Shut up,’’ I said, staring back – and briefly he did. I was halfway back to the house when the alarm started again; then stopped when I whirled back around. We repeated this until the builders across the road started looking uncomfortable.

This morning he was back, just as I knew he’d be. My friend had suggested I get a water gun, knowing full well for people like me in suburbs like mine that’s a sure-fire way of prompting an armed offenders’ call-out.

Instead, I padded out to the driveway again, and the bird once more fell silent. When I turned my back he started up again, but this time I didn’t turn around. Lying in bed, the tū ı¯ alarm continued and when my actual alarm joined in, I knew the war was over.

It’s been a dog of a year. As we limp towards its end and the promise of a better one, may any new trouble for you be like mine: small, funny, and fleeting.

There are 24 sleeps until 2022. At least that’s something good to squawk about.