It is generally quite well-known that kookaburras live in family groups: a bonded male and female, plus a retainer of their offspring. Numbers matter in kookaburra society because a neighbouring tribe may have its eye firmly on the expansion of territory – and may invade a smaller group.

This means the injury and eventual death of one bird – most crucially of one of the parent birds – can have disastrous effects for the remaining group. They could be evicted from their home, which is likely to lead to their death.

I once told all this to a human family of five. The oldest of the three children, a 12-year-old boy, had found an injured kookaburra on the grounds of their own expansive rural property in country New South Wales, and he had taken the bird to his parents, who then rang me for help.

The bird had a fractured wing – and 21 days later, after it was completely healed and able to fly again, I asked them whether they would like to witness the release. They did.

Before the bird re-entered the wild, I told them how important it was to the kookaburra family that they had saved this female – it had potentially saved them all from eviction, and death. I explained that we had to pick our spot well: territories were not usually very large (some 2.5 sq km) and, if released in a hostile territory, the bird could have been killed as an intruder.

I added that once the released kookaburra had landed on a branch, the other members should soon join it, and together they would sing a resounding chorus in triumph of their reunion. And so it was. I released the bird, and, sure enough, other kookaburras soon landed on the same branch and they all sang together.

Years later I learned that this specific release had made a deep and lasting impression on all the family, and had directly led the oldest boy into a career as a veterinarian. The mother explained that the day of the release was as if a whole new world had opened to him; he began to look with new eyes at the natural world and, more importantly, made a connection with it in such a way that he felt he wanted to know and do more.

He was captivated by the fact that the saving of one kookaburra could have been so crucially important – and that birds could have this in common with human families.

Gisela Kaplan and a magpie, one of the most outstanding mimics in the world

In fact, birds – at least some of the species we have studied – have a surprising number of things in common with humans, some of which we have learned only over the last few decades. Both birds and humans can learn how to use their voice, and some birds and humans can even mimic other species – the best proof that vocalisation is a learned behaviour.

Australian magpies and lyrebirds are probably the most outstanding mimics in the world. Both species have pure tone, beautiful sounding song and extensive repertoires.

There are reports of people who, hearing the neighing of a horse where no horse should be, were driven by curiosity to check in the yard. Moving to the source of the sound, they saw a magpie sitting in a tree doing a mighty good imitation of a horse.

The lyrebird male mimics merely to dazzle a female with his artistry. Unlike the lyrebird, magpies have the additional ability to mimic human speech, as do many parrot species.

It has been thought that mimicry is mindless. True, some mimicry may be no more than a repeat of other sounds, without the bird understanding the meaning – but in some cases the mimicry is used in meaningful ways.

An example I have cited often is the brief but telling story of a magpie living on a rural property in inland NSW, which had learned to mimic the name of the resident pet dog. The property also had a pet cat that repeatedly tried to get rid of the magpie. When the cat approached, the magpie called the dog – then the dog came running and chased the cat away.

This anecdote is special in that it suggests that calling the dog was not mindless mimicry but it had become a useful linguistic tool to achieve a specific outcome. This interpretation fits well with our findings that magpies have the beginning of lexicon.

For instance, we discovered some years ago that magpies have specific and designated food calls and “eagle alarm” calls. One can play the alarm call back to them, placing the speakers on the ground, and, without fail, the response of magpies is to look up. If this call sequence did not have any specific meaning, one would expect them to have looked at the sound source instead.

Related evidence also showed magpies even using gestures and pointing when vocal messages seem insufficient in identifying a risk. Incidentally, a true-blue Aussie budgerigar (actually green and yellow in the natural environment) is the Guinness World Records holder among birds in the number of words it can mimic – more than 1,700 English words!

We now know that birds can have multiple and remarkable cognitive abilities. They can also feel, have empathy and even grieve for the death of a partner; magpies in particular, apart from parrots, can form long-term friendships with humans or their dogs.

Once we learn about the inner life of magpies, and what we have in common with them, a whole new world can open up for us too, and may make us more likely to see them as part of our culture and heritage, and to protect them.

This is certainly one reason why I continue to write about native birds.

• Prof Gisela Kaplan will be presenting talks on Very Clever Magpies and the Private Lives of Local Birds on 6 and 7 December, as part Birds: Flight Paths in Australian Art which runs at the Mornington Peninsula Regional Gallery until 12 February. Kaplan’s latest book, Bird Minds: Cognition and Behaviour of Australian Native Birds, is out now