Holding dessert, directing traffic, or frustrating a recovering dog, What am I?

Feathered yet I’ll never fly Upon me do the weary lie You’ll need me often in the night But rarely I’ll be used to fight!

My many teeth are dull and neat, yet through soft strands they’re quick to sweep. Or with great care I search each place, until what’s lost I finally trace.

What is blue and smells like red paint??

My feathers mirror moonless skies, yet clever thoughts fill watchful eyes. I speak in calls and borrowed sound, wherever forest paths are found.