Several months ago, I told you about my grandfather's parrot, Coco, an African grey parrot. Well today my mother sent me an e-mail whose title was simply "Coco". My first reaction was that famous catchphrase from the Star Wars saga: "I have a bad feeling about this…". I was right: Coco died in the night. He (in fact: she, but we always used to refer to this parrot by "he") was 44. My uncle says he was born on 26 March 1963. (Hey, isn't that Shakespeare's birth date?)
He told me that he received this parrot from an old lady in 1982. Back then, my uncle was running a book shop in Huy, and the parrot would always greet the customers and utter many usual sounds, such as the bell or the telephone, which he perfectly imitated, being a parrot.
When I was a kid, we would often go to my uncle's shop to say hello and play a little bit with Coco, giving him Tiercé-notes to eat (!). He was really fond of that, but also of sunflower seeds. When my uncle closed his shop in 1998, Coco went to my grandparents', where he stayed until now. Whenever I went there, I would whistle and talk to him, and most of the time he replied, especially when you presented him with a chips or a piece of meat (even chicken, which is thus close to cannibalism), as shown in the picture below:
The whole essence of that creature was caught in this snapshot…
Here are some of the many pictures I took of Coco:
Just eating roast beef, as usual.
Just eating crisps, as usual.
Hasn't he something human in his look?
This is the way he used to go down to his woodlike area.
Don't believe he was trying to eat my finger!
Farewell, Coco!
Tonight, I came back from Namur with my uncle, and we stepped by at my grandparents' to fetch Coco's body, for we wanted to bury it in Aubel, at the back of the garden. (With a single light coming from the house, and Coco being wrapped in a black plastic bag, it was as if we were members of the Mafia secretly getting rid of a body in a cold night…) So, that's what we did: my father dug a hole and we put our old friend in it, while remembering some good moments we spend with him. After my father filled the hole, the emotion seized me and some tears fell on my cheeks — I hadn't cried for ages! I've already suffered the death of several pets, among which Poupoune, my rabbit, but I wasn't that sad. I had always known Coco: he was nearly as old as my mother!
Coco is dead, but life goes on.
All that story reminds me of that sketch about a dead parrot by the Monty Python:
It's bleedin' demised! It's not pining it's passed on! This parrot is no more! It has ceased to be! It's expired and gone to meet its maker! This is a late parrot! It's a stiff! Bereft of life it rests in peace, if you hadn't nailed it to the perch it would be pushing up the daisies, its run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible! This... is an ex... parrot!A last thing before I leave you till tomorrow: Coco died exactly 44 years after JFK. Unbelievable! At least, I won't forget the date.
