During the divorce, my ex-wife and I were dividing our belongings when she suddenly snapped, “Take this! You two are a right pair!”
And so, the majestic cockatoo with the feline name Marquis came into our home—though my mother promptly renamed him Bertie.
Technically, Bertie wasn’t part of the shared property; he’d lived in her house long before I arrived. Bertie was perfect in every way, save for one flaw—he refused to speak. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t coax a single word out of him. Bertie stayed silent, stubborn as a mule. Only Grandad disapproved of our efforts.
“Leave the bird alone!” he’d grumble. “Haven’t you got anyone else to talk to?”
Perhaps that’s why Bertie and Grandad clicked. Grandad liked having a quiet, attentive listener, and Bertie happily cocked his head, watching as Grandad tinkered with his tools or sipped his evening whisky.
Eventually, we took Bertie to our neighbour, Mrs. Higgins, who kept two chatty budgies and fancied herself an expert in training birds to speak. Needless to say, Bertie left her utterly astonished.
She was beside herself with excitement! She circled him, flapping her hands and muttering encouragement before impulsively reaching out to stroke him. Her finger brushed the top of his dozing head.
Bertie cracked one eye open, glared at her, and suddenly said, loud and clear: “Leave the bird alone!”
Mrs. Higgins fainted. From that moment, Bertie wouldn’t stop talking. It was like the joke about the mute boy who suddenly declared, “This soup’s too salty!”—and when asked why he’d stayed silent for ten years, replied, “Well, before this, it was fine!”
Bertie had been quiet until, out of nowhere, he started speaking—with Grandad’s voice, Grandad’s tone, and, most alarmingly, Grandad’s vocabulary. Grandad, a tough old war veteran who’d lost a leg and spent his life as a carpenter, never minced his words. Why Bertie chose to mimic him remains a mystery, but the fact was undeniable—Bertie swore like a sailor, with flair and gusto.
Mrs. Higgins was horrified but undeterred. She decided to take Bertie under her wing, determined to teach him proper manners and refined English. She visited nearly every day, using some fancy foreign method she’d read about.
Grandad fumed but held his tongue—until she left. Then, under his breath, he’d mutter something unprintable.
Eventually, seeing no progress, Mrs. Higgins gave up—much to Grandad’s relief.
A couple of months later, as we sipped tea in the kitchen, she dropped by to check on Bertie. The moment he saw her, he perked up and announced: “Take care of the bird! Bertie’s a rare one!”
This was the phrase she’d spent months unsuccessfully drilling into him. Even though he’d said it in Grandad’s gruff tone, she was overjoyed—eyes even welling up with pride.
Bertie eyed her triumph, then added, in Grandad’s exact voice: “Should’ve taught the cat instead, you daft old bat.”
*The lesson? Some things—and some birds—can’t be tamed, and sometimes, it’s better to embrace the chaos than fight it.*
