This is the story of a little girl and her cockatoo, growing up together.

Claude, the cockatoo, impinged upon my family's home, and then crept into our hearts a year before I was born in 1983.

My dad, the "Hon Nick Jones", a radio personality and comedian himself, had recently plastered the neighbourhood with posters of our missing cockatoo — a beautiful, majestically feathered specimen called Radar.

Among reports of sightings of Radar, someone called the house claiming to have captured our cockatoo and requesting my family come to collect him.

I can imagine my mum and dad and five siblings piling into the car, excited to retrieve our beautiful bird — only to arrive to a dishevelled, balding juvenile cockatoo who couldn't fly.

Claude had some feathers when he was a juvenile, but they quickly fell out and he grew fewer of them as he got older. ( Supplied: Amabelle Jones )

The young cockatoo had more cheek than you could poke a stick at and seemed only too keen to hop into the car. But it wasn't Radar.

Feeling terrible for the homeless bird and charmed by his character, Dad let him cruise home with us.

"Well, we have to keep him now, Mum," one of my siblings said.

A visit to the vet confirmed he was a wild young'n who had become a "runner" because of his beak and feather disease.

His flight feathers had fallen out and he would never fly again. He couldn't go back into the wild, so he happily became Clawedy Claude Jones.

(As for Radar, he remained, fittingly, off the radar forever.)

A very cheeky cockie

There are records of healthy cockatoos living to 80 years and beyond, but in the wild, beak and feather disease can dramatically shorten a bird's lifespan by preventing them from accessing enough food and making them vulnerable to predators.

The vet gave Claude a prognosis of two to five years, and said many birds with this disease are euthanased, but Claude had other ideas.

To my mum's dismay — the reason for which will soon become evident — Claude surpassed his prognosis five times over, living a very loud and proud life.

Claude's thundering screeching and shouts of: "HELLOOOOO CLAUUDDDDE" made up the alarm-like soundtrack of our already noisy household for a quarter of a century.

I'm sure I heard Claude's incessant cacophony of chatter and squawks from the womb.

Perhaps that's why I fell in love with the sounds and creatures of the Australian bush, and why I believe cockatoos are the funniest of all creatures, like dogs in their ability to make people laugh and enjoy doing so.

Or maybe Claude just had me under his spell.

We formed a special bond very early on. He always trusted my dad and I — he knew our sense of humour crossed over into the animal world.

And while he liked my other siblings, he often wouldn't cooperate with anyone else in the house, preferring to tease and toy with them instead.

Claude always let everyone know when he wanted out of his cage, or else he would escape. ( Supplied: Amabelle Jones )

As for my poor mum — Claude loved the way Mum busied about the house.

The scurrying movements of her constant organising and sorting excited him, and he took them as an invitation to give chase.

He would get a particular look — the cockatoo equivalent of an evil grin — and his normally high-pitched, comedic "Hello Claude" catchphrase would drop an octave, slow, and gain an almost menacing edge.

He'd wait for Mum to be distracted before silently escaping his cage and clambering down its sides to the floor.

Then he would lower his head, extend out his scrawny, featherless wings and chase after her on foot, all the while uttering "Hello Claude".

Despite his awkward gait thanks to his inward-facing claws, he would eventually catch up to Mum, latching onto her ankles with his jagged, broken beak.

"That bloody bird is out again," she would scream.

Her yelling and running footsteps would echo through the house, her only option for retreat to leap into the bath, leaving Claude to stalk up and down the length of the tub.

And like a cheeky child pleading innocence, as soon as we ran to the rescue, Claude would immediately change his tune.

All of a sudden, he was upbeat, chattering away and bobbing his head up and down like he was laughing. He would climb onto my arm totally satisfied with himself.

Mum fed Claude every day, and even made him cups of tea. But he only ever chased her.

We think he found it hilarious, and he made sure to only ever do it when Dad and I were around to "enjoy" it too.

The best friend a little girl could have

As a kid, I didn't realise that not every little girl had their own bird to talk to. An avian friend to follow them around and join in games in the garden, making mud pies, having teddy bear tea parties, playing dress-ups or collecting treasures in the bush.

Claude didn't mind playing dress-ups, even if he had no idea what he was doing. ( Supplied: Amabelle Jones )

Claude particularly liked a fur-trimmed, red satin queen's cape that was meant for a Barbie doll, but fit him perfectly.

When I would place it around his shoulders, his scrawny chest would puff out. We would put Elvis or some other upbeat rock'n'roll on and Claude would bob around the place excitedly.

He knew the tunes and would sing along in his own cockatoo gibberish.

I thought every kid had a bald bird, with blue skin and tatty fluff.

A bird friend who would sit on the back of their dad's chair at the head of the Christmas lunch table, hysterically joining in the laughter and merriment of our group.

A bird who, when he was lonely in his cage, would bellow my nickname through the house, "PODDDDDDDD", until I came to see him.

We would have a cup of tea and a biscuit — always keenly accepted with scaly claws and dunked delicately in his water to soften it up. His brittle, broken beak needed some assistance, especially when it came to a gingernut biscuit, his personal favourite.

No broken beak would get in the way of a gentleman cockatoo enjoying his cuppa and biscuit.

The beak and feather disease made it difficult for Claude to eat and move around, but he still managed to have fun. ( Supplied: Amabelle Jones )

My little mate Claude was a childhood friend that surpassed any other, but when I grew old enough to realise that he was a bird with no bird friends, I started to feel sad for him.

When we were out playing in the garden, he would sometimes turn his head sideways to look at the birds up in the trees or flying overhead. I thought I could see a childlike glint of wonderment in his eye.

It made me sad then, and still brings a tear to my eyes today.

As much human companionship that I could give him, it could never be the same as being a free bird.

When I finally started school, Claude adapted somewhat without my company. The family dog came to learn that if she sat next to his cage he would give her a good scratch in return for her company.

After school he would join me on my desk to do my homework, gnawing on the ends of pencils and chattering away.

But as I got older and my attention turned to teenage things, I fear poor Claude became lonelier and lonelier.

He would screech, the neighbours would complain, and I would feel awful.

Luckily for him, when Mum and Dad moved their home business to a warehouse space, Claude went along so he wasn't left home alone.

We did our best for Claude, but I always knew deep down it could never be enough.

Claude didn't mind the company of the Jones' cat and dog. ( Supplied: Amabelle Jones )

Farewelling Claude to the sky

Not long after I moved out of home, leaving Claude with even less company and freedom, I got a phone call from Dad.

"Pod, Claude isn't well," he said. I asked him to put me on speaker phone so Claude could hear me.

"Hello Claudey," I said. No reply.

Dad started speaking again but was cut off by a huge screech: "RAARRRRK". Then silence.

"He just died, didn't he Dad?" I said.

Apparently, Claude had been struggling all morning, and decided only then, with one last almighty cockatoo shriek, to let go.

Perhaps this is my way of comforting myself, but I believe Claude chose to die when he knew Dad and I were "with" him.

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I was 24 years old. Claude was 25.

Growing up I always thought my funny, tatty, ground-dwelling cockatoo was just beautiful.

I loved the few remaining spiked, unfeathered quills of his crest. The way they lifted up like a raised eyebrow.

I loved the one, perfect feather on his back that he would proudly preen. I loved his crazy eyes, and his laugh.

After he died, I had the most vivid dream of hearing Claude screech proudly. I heard distant replies from other cockatoos and suddenly, there was Claude in front of me.

I saw all his feathers grow at once, and he became a fully feathered, fully crested sulphur-crested cockatoo.

He looked majestic. King Claude the Cockatoo.

He screeched again to me, stretched his full wings out and flew up and away into the bright, blue sky.

Amabelle Jones is a children's writer and illustrator and submitted this story to RN's nature program Off Track.