We were divorcing, splitting everything we’d owned together. Then came the hitch. “Take this!” my ex-wife snapped. “You two are made for each other!”
And so, a magnificent cockatoo—once called Marquis, a name more suited to a cat—entered our home, promptly renamed Kesh by my mother.
The parrot had come to me in the division of assets, though he was never truly shared property, having lived in her house long before we met. Kesh was perfect in every way, save one: he refused to speak. Every attempt to coax even a single word from him failed miserably. He stayed silent, stubborn as a soldier under interrogation. Only my grandfather disapproved of our efforts.
“Leave the bloody bird alone!” he’d grumble. “Have you got no one else to talk to?”
Perhaps that’s why the two of them bonded. Grandad liked having a quiet, attentive listener, and Kesh would sit there, head tilted, absorbing every word as Grandad tinkered in his workshop or sipped his evening whisky.
Eventually, we decided to consult the neighbor, a self-proclaimed expert who owned a pair of chatty budgies and claimed she could teach any bird the Queen’s English. Needless to say, Kesh made an impression.
She was utterly enchanted! Circling him, clapping her hands, muttering encouragements, she reached out to stroke his head while he dozed.
Disturbed, Kesh cracked one eye open, glared at the unfamiliar woman, then suddenly declared in a crisp, clear voice:
“Piss off, you nosy cow!”
The neighbor fainted on the spot. From that moment, the floodgates opened. It was like that 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 ten years, he replies, “Everything was fine before!”
Kesh was the same. Silent all his life, then suddenly, he wouldn’t shut up. The trouble was *how* he spoke—with Grandad’s voice, his gruff tone, and, most damningly, his vocabulary. Grandad, a sturdy old war veteran who’d driven lorries in the army and came home missing a leg, had spent his life as a carpenter. He never minced words, and his speech was as rough as his hands. Why Kesh chose *him* to mimic remains a mystery, but there was no denying it—the bird swore like a sailor, with flair and gusto.
The neighbor was horrified but undeterred. She took it upon herself to “rehabilitate” him—teaching him proper manners and refined English. Almost daily, she’d march in with some imported training method, determined to reform him.
Grandad seethed but bit his tongue, muttering darkly only after she’d left. It wasn’t hard to guess what about. In the end, seeing zero progress, she gave up—much to Grandad’s relief.
Then, months later, when we were all having tea, she dropped by to check on Kesh’s “development.” Spotting her, Kesh perked up and announced:
“Protect the parrot! Kesh is a precious bird!”
It was the phrase she’d spent *months* trying to drill into him. Even though he delivered it in Grandad’s growl, she was overjoyed—almost tearful.
Kesh eyed her triumphant grin, then added in the same gravelly voice:
“Should’ve taught a cat instead, you daft bat.”
