My wife and I were getting a divorce and dividing our possessions when she suddenly shoved a cage toward me.
“Take this!” she snapped. “You two deserve each other.”
And that’s how a stunning cockatoo—originally named Whiskers, after a cat—ended up in our home, promptly renamed “Kipper” by my mother.
The parrot technically wasn’t even joint property, as he’d lived in her house long before me. Kipper was perfect in every way, except for one glaring flaw: he refused to speak. No matter how hard we tried, not a single word escaped his beak. He stayed silent as a soldier under interrogation. Only Granddad disapproved of our efforts.
“Leave the poor bird alone!” he’d grumble. “Don’t you have anyone else to talk to?”
Maybe that’s why they became such good mates. Granddad liked Kipper as a quiet, attentive listener, and Kipper would tilt his head, fascinated, whenever Granddad tinkered in the shed or settled down with a whiskey in the evening.
Eventually, we took Kipper to our neighbor, Brenda, who owned two chatty budgies and fancied herself an expert in teaching birds proper English. Needless to say, Kipper made quite the impression.
She was utterly smitten! She circled his cage, clapping her hands, cooing at him, then—for some reason—decided to stroke his head. As her finger brushed his feathers, Kipper cracked one eye open, gave her a dirty look, and suddenly blurted:
“Piss off, you nosy cow!”
Brenda nearly fainted, but from that moment, Kipper wouldn’t shut up. It was like that old joke about the mute boy who finally speaks at dinner to complain, “This soup’s too salty!” When asked why he’d stayed quiet for years, he shrugs, “It was fine before!”
Same with Kipper. Silent for ages, then boom—Granddad’s voice, his tone, even his *vocabulary*. Granddad, a tough old bloke who’d driven trucks in the war, lost a leg, and worked as a carpenter, had a mouth like a sailor. Why Kipper imitated *him* remains a mystery, but there it was: the bird swore like a docker, loud and creative.
Brenda was horrified but undeterred. She took it upon herself to “reform” him—teaching him proper manners using some fancy imported training method. Granddad fumed but kept quiet, only muttering under his breath after she left.
Eventually, realizing her efforts were wasted, Brenda gave up—much to Granddad’s relief.
Then, months later, as we sipped tea one evening, Brenda dropped by to check on Kipper. Spotting her, he perked up and, in Granddad’s gruff tone, announced:
“Respect the parrot! Kipper’s a treasure!”
It was the *one* phrase Brenda had spent months drilling into him. Even delivered in Granddad’s voice, she nearly cried with pride.
Kipper squinted at her, then added sweetly:
“Should’ve taught the bloody cat instead, you daft bat.”
*Life lesson: Some things—whether parrots or people—are perfectly fine just as they are.*
