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I never expected to share my mornings with a parrot.
A kettle, certainly. A crossword, absolutely. But a sharp-eyed African grey called Clementine, who now seems to know my routine better than I do – never!
But now I wouldn’t have it any other way.
My darling Clementine arrived four years ago after my sister moved into assisted living and could no longer keep her. My nephew brought her over one snowy afternoon with a cage, a stand, several bags of seed and a list of care instructions that made her sound somewhere between a toddler and a visiting dignitary.
The arrangement was supposed to be temporary, but Clementine had other ideas.
Within days, she had made herself entirely at home. She mastered the sound of the microwave, learned the squeak of the back door, and very quickly worked out that if she whistled at exactly the right moment, I would look up from whatever I was doing and give her my full attention. I’m still not sure who trained whom.
The lovely thing about Clementine is that she has become an essential part of life.
She sits near the kitchen window in the morning while I make coffee, offering the occasional chirrup as the neighbourhood wakes up. She seems particularly interested in the postman, squirrels and the weather, all of which receive regular commentary from her perch.
“Rain coming,” she said last week, just as the sky turned grey. It may have been a lucky guess, but she was right, which was more than I can say for the weather app on my phone.
There is something rather comforting about having a pet who takes such an active interest in the day ahead. She notices things I might miss and somehow makes even the smallest household routine feel shared.
Every afternoon, without fail, Clementine expects apple slices. This has become one of those lovely little rituals that creep into life and stay there.
At around three o’clock she starts watching me with particular focus, tilting her head as if to remind me that I am running dangerously close to missing an important appointment.
I slice the apple, hand over her share, and she accepts each piece with dignity. If she’s especially pleased, she says, “Lovely,” in a voice suspiciously close to my own.
That simple moment has become one of my favourite parts of the day.
Life after 50 often settles into these smaller rhythms. Not the hectic rush of earlier years, but quieter habits that make the house feel lived in and companionable.
After my husband died, I became used to a quieter house.
Not lonely exactly, but quieter in a way that makes every sound seem more noticeable–the turning of a page, the central heating coming on, the evening news drifting from the sitting room.
Clementine changed that in the gentlest possible way.
Her chatter, whistles and occasional perfectly timed observations make the house feel alive. If I laugh while talking on the phone, I’ll often hear the laugh repeated from the next room later on. If I sigh over the news, she has been known to produce an identical sigh that makes me burst out laughing.
She has a wonderful knack for breaking solemn moments before they grow too heavy. It’s hard to stay gloomy when a parrot suddenly announces, “Tea time!”
What I love most is the sense that Clementine has become part of the home’s personality.
Friends ask after her before they ask after me.
Visitors are greeted like old friends, usually with a whistle and the occasional “Hello there,” which she delivers with more confidence than I ever could.
In the evenings, she settles quietly while I read, knit or watch television, and there’s something deeply comforting about that shared calm.
She may be small, feathered and rather bossy, but she brings warmth, routine and more than a little comedy to my days.
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