The divorce was final, and my ex-wife and I were splitting our possessions when she dropped the clanger. “Take this wretched thing!” she snapped. “You two are birds of a feather!”
And just like that, our home gained a magnificent cockatoo—once called Marquis, a name more suited to a cat—until my mum promptly renamed him Kipper.
The parrot had come into my possession during the division of assets, though he was never truly shared property—he’d lived in her house long before I arrived. Kipper was perfect in every way, save for one glaring flaw: he refused to speak. No matter how hard we tried, coaxing even a single word from him proved hopeless. Kipper stayed silent, like a spy under interrogation. Only Grandad disapproved of our efforts.
“Leave the bloody bird alone!” he’d grumble. “Have you got nothin’ better to do?”
Perhaps that’s why the two of them bonded. Grandad appreciated a quiet listener, and Kipper would tilt his head, utterly rapt, as the old man tinkered away or settled in for his nightly whiskey.
Eventually, we decided to consult our neighbor—a woman who kept a pair of chatty budgies and fancied herself an expert in training birds to speak. Needless to say, Kipper made quite the impression.
She was utterly smitten, circling his cage, hands fluttering, muttering encouragement before daring to stroke his head. Just a single finger grazed his feathers—and that’s when it happened.
Kipper cracked one eye, fixed her with a baleful glare, and announced crisply: “Leave the bloody bird alone!”
Our neighbor fainted clean away. From that day, Kipper never shut up. It was like the old joke about the mute boy who suddenly blurted, “This soup’s too salty!” When asked why he’d never spoken before, he said, “Everything was fine till now!”
Kipper was the same. Years of silence, then an unstoppable flood—with Grandad’s voice, his gruff tone, and, worst of all, his particular way with words. Grandad, a tough old sod who’d driven lorries in the war and lost a leg, had spent his life as a carpenter. He never minced his words, and his vocabulary was… expressive. Why the parrot chose him as a role model was a mystery, but there was no denying it—Kipper swore like a sailor, with all the artistry of a seasoned craftsman.
Our neighbor was scandalized but undeterred. She took it upon herself to reform him—to teach the bird proper manners and refined English. Almost daily, she’d march in with her imported training manuals, drilling him like a schoolmistress.
Grandad fumed but bit his tongue, muttering only after she left. Not hard to guess what about. In the end, seeing no progress, she gave up—much to Grandad’s relief.
Then, months later, as we sipped tea one evening, she dropped by to check on Kipper’s well-being. The moment he spotted her, he perked up and declared—clear as a bell: “Mind the parrot! Kipper is a precious bird!”
It was the very phrase she’d spent months trying to teach him. Even though he’d delivered it in Grandad’s growl, her triumph was unshakable. She might’ve even teared up.
Kipper eyed her smugly, then added in the same gravelly tone: “Should’ve taught the cat instead, you daft old bat.”
