During the divorce, my wife and I were dividing our possessions when she suddenly shoved a cage toward me. “Take this one!” she snapped. “You two are made for each other!”
And so, a splendid cockatoo with the feline-inspired name Marquis entered our home—only to be swiftly rebranded by my mother as “Kesha.”
The parrot had been lumped into the marital assets, though he’d lived in her house long before me. Kesha was flawless in every way, save one: he refused to speak. Every attempt to coax a word out of him ended in humiliating failure. He stayed silent as a spy under interrogation. Only Grandad disapproved of our efforts.
“Leave the bloody bird alone!” he’d grumble. “Got no one else to chat with?”
Perhaps that mutual understanding bonded them. Grandad, content with a quiet listener, would tinker in his workshop, sipping his evening whisky, while Kesha tilted his head, engrossed in his every movement.
Eventually, we took Kesha to our neighbour, a supposed “bird whisperer” who owned two chatty budgies and boasted expertise in avian linguistics. Needless to say, Kesha made an impression.
She was utterly charmed—circling him, clapping, murmuring praises. Then, for reasons unknown, she reached out to stroke his head.
Disturbed from his nap, Kesha cracked one beady eye, sized her up, and suddenly spoke—clear as a bell:
“Piss off, you daft cow!”
The neighbour fainted on the spot. From that moment, Kesha couldn’t stop talking. It was like that joke about the mute boy who, after a decade of silence, suddenly complained, “This soup’s too salty!” When asked why he’d never spoken before, he replied, “Well, it was fine till now!”
And so it was with Kesha. Silent for years, then—boom. The trouble was, he spoke exactly like Grandad. A tough old bloke who’d driven lorries in the war, lost a leg, and spent his life as a carpenter. Never minced his words. Why Kesha imitated him, of all people, remains a mystery, but soon the parrot swore like a sailor—creative, vivid, and unrepentant.
The neighbour, though horrified, refused to give up. She took it upon herself to “reform” him, visiting daily with some posh foreign training method. Grandad scowled through it all, muttering under his breath once she left.
Unsurprisingly, her efforts failed. After months of zero progress, she finally gave up—much to Grandad’s delight.
Then, one evening as we sipped tea, she dropped by to “check on Kesha’s progress.” Spotting her, he perked up and declared—in flawless mimicry of her own practised tone:
“Cherish your parrot! Kesha’s a rare bird!”
It was the exact phrase she’d drilled into him for months. Even delivered in Grandad’s gruff voice, her joy was unshakable. A tear of triumph even welled up.
Kesha, eyeing her smugly, added in the same grizzled tone:
“Should’ve taught the cat, you daft bat.”
