A pheasant coucal is a mass of contradictions: a bewildered bravo rolling through my house like a feathered wrecking ball | Bronwen Scott

Swinging wildly from confident to confused, and permanently dishevelled, this most relatable of cuckoos blunders through life as best it can

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A sudden thud made me look up from my work. A stack of books sprawled across the floor. There were folders too, the contents fanned out like a deck of cards. In the middle, unperturbed by the mess it was creating, a pheasant coucal sauntered down the hallway. The bird was a feathered wrecking ball.

In those days, I lived in a traditional Queenslander. The hall was once a veranda running the full length of the house. It had been enclosed with louvres to make a pleasant, airy office. I'd leave the door open to catch the breeze. To wildlife, an open door is an invitation. I'd been visited by a grey fantail, an entire family of pied butcherbirds and a brush-turkey, who had entered with uncharacteristic stealth and made off with a shoe. This was the first pheasant coucal.