Steve Braunias: The spotted dove is bird of the year every year

Steve Braunias worries about the spotted doves in his garden. Photo / Supplied

How will the spotted doves get on after I leave? Most days I look out the kitchen window on to the backyard and see these shy, nervous birds, doing their best not to make a scene, slowly making their way around the edges of the garden, finding just enough food to stay alive. They are my favourite birds in the world. My world is the backyard. All over New Zealand, householders are taking care of the wild birds in their gardens, scattering seeds, filling up bowls of water, spooning out hot meals (pasta, beans, rice); I am among this quiet, dozy number, in silent communion with birds. But I worry about the spotted doves.

Strange to think that the spotted dove population in New Zealand comes from one incident – the release of captive birds in Mt Eden, in the 1920s. Someone must have owned a massive number of the doves for enough of them to go about setting up a group that has survived for 100 years. Maybe the householder was packing up to leave and faced the same arithmetic as everyone who changes addresses: you don't add to your possessions, you subtract. The birds are now widespread in Auckland, and from Whangārei to Rotorua, and on the east coast between Katikati and Whakatāne. I can vouch they are in Te Atatū. And now I worry about the spotted doves.

The spotted dove is also known as the Malay dove, Chinese dove, spotted turtle-dove, and – this is good – lace-necked dove. They have a delicate, subtle, heartbreaking beauty; it's in their almost imperceptible colouring of their chest, a grey that glows with hues of pink. It looks like a deep sunset on a cloudy evening. Also, they have a black and white checked half-collar, their lace-neck. It's a chic little accessory. There's something royal about it, like they're wearing an ermine stole. And there they are, among the commoners in our backyards, more stately than rock pigeons, sparrows, starlings, blackbirds, mynahs, easily bullied, preferring to keep their distance. They get by, just, somehow; I worry about the spotted doves.

There is debate about feeding wild birds, including spotted doves – what to feed them, when to feed them, and whether to feed them anything. Dictates tell us that bread is bad, it's like junk food. Corn kernels and oats are better, but all food causes dependency issues. God almighty. We can argue ourselves and other species out of existence. I go with Rosemary Tully, author of the bible on feeding wild birds, Tea for the Tui. She writes, "There are numerous reasons why we should feed our wild birds. Perhaps the most obvious of all is that, without our help, many of them may die, particularly during severe winters…You needn't confine your garden bird feeding to winter and early spring … Providing an easy source of food in the garden during summer keeps adults in good condition." So I worry about the spotted doves.

The rock pigeons, sparrows, starlings, blackbirds, and mynahs will get over it after I leave, they'll manage, but the spotted doves seem to go through their whole lives looking lost and perplexed; my departure is a disruption in the food chain, and their temperament might regard it as a crisis. I wish I could give them a forwarding address. "It's good there," I'd say. "You'll like it. Big backyard. Trees. Yeah, the cats are coming, but they've never bothered you in the past. It's not far from here. Please come. Please." Rehearsing such a speech is known as talking to yourself. That way lies madness. I worry about everything; definitely I worry about the spotted doves.

There are things I'll miss more than the spotted doves. The mangroves, the creek, the tides. Our surroundings become part of ourselves. Birds, though, are apart. They occupy the zone of sky and air. Small, soft, easily damaged, they are little bits and pieces of flesh and nerves, exactly as light as feathers, scattering like leaves. They go their own way. They have a good view of the way things are. But they touch something deep within us, something at once sentimental and profound, some inchoate mass of feeling, and I doubt I'll ever stop worrying about the spotted doves.