Sticky Beak Read Online Free PDF Page B

reminded myself that it wasn’t Ms Dunning’s fault, she’s just been spending too much time with Darryn Peck and his mates.
    Then I squeezed myself into the fireplace and climbed up onto the big log we keep there in summer and lifted both my hands up into the blackness.
    I touched feathers.
    I wondered if a cockatoo can recognise friendly hands in pitch darkness when it’s got other things on its mind, like being called a dork-brain.
    My fingers all stayed connected to my hands, so obviously it can.
    Gently I lifted the cocky down.
    In the darkness I could see a gleaming eye watching me.
    As I wriggled out of the fireplace with the cocky clasped to my chest, Dad and Ms Dunning advanced towards me.
    Their eyes were gleaming too.
    â€˜That bird’s a flaming menace,’ said Dad. He said it with his mouth, partly because he always speaks with his mouth when he’s angry, and partly because his hands were full of bits of splintered wood.
    â€˜Look what it did to Claire’s hand-carved salad bowl.’
    I glanced down at the cocky’s curved black beak. It looked strong, but not that strong.
    â€˜And the vicious cheese-brain had a go at my buckle,’ continued Dad.
    I looked at his belt and suddenly I felt the cocky’s head feathers tickling me under the chin. I wasn’t sure if that was because it had just gone mohawk or because my mouth had just fallen open.
    The metal buckle looked as if it had been attacked with pliers. The Harley Davidson had a bent wheel and the skeleton riding it was completely missing a ribcage.
    I looked at the cocky’s beak again. Perhaps its mother had swallowed a lump of tungsten steel thinking it was a gumnut.
    â€˜And,’ said Ms Dunning, ‘it had a go at the kitchen table and the dresser and snatched the washing-up sponge out of my hand and nearly caused a fire.’
    She pointed to the sink, where a charred sponge was floating in the frying pan.
    It hadn’t been fish after all.
    â€˜Just give me a few moments alone with it,’ I said.
    Dad and Ms Dunning looked confused. Perhaps they thought I meant the sponge. It’s not easy expressing yourself clearly when you’ve got your hands full of sooty cockatoo.
    I retreated into my room and put the cocky onto what was left of the hanging rail.
    We both looked at the large jagged hole in the side of my wardrobe.
    â€˜It’s OK,’ I said, moving my hands slowly. ‘Don’t feel bad. You just panicked. That’s normal, waking up in a strange place.’
    I could tell from its blank expression and the big poo it did on my best shoes that it didn’t have a clue what I was saying.
    I wrote it a note.
    It was worth a try. Cockies are very smart. I’ve seen them on telly pedalling little bikes and drawing raffles.
    It ate the note.
    There are times when it’s a real pain not being able to speak. You want to scream with frustration, except of course you can’t. So you make do with what you’ve got.
    I put my face close to the cocky’s and gave it a look.
    â€˜Don’t be scared, you poor little thing,’ the look said. ‘I want to help you.’
    â€˜Rack off,’ said the cocky.
    I couldn’t believe it.
    Then I realised I must have misheard.
    I was making the cocky feel nervous by being too close, that was all, and it had asked me to back off.
    I moved my face back a bit.
    â€˜Get lost, dork-brain,’ said the cocky. ‘You smell. Go and fall off a rock.’
    I was shocked.
    But I tried to be understanding.
    I gave the cockatoo another look.
    â€˜Don’t be cross,’ my look said, ‘everything’s going to be fine.’
    â€˜Get stuffed,’ said the cocky.
    I changed the look to ‘I’m your friend’.
    â€˜Go kiss a chook,’ said the cocky.
    My face was aching, but I had one more go.
    I gave it my best ‘I’m going to look after you’ expression.
    â€˜Suck a