Most parrots learn a polite “hello” and spend the rest of their lives screaming it at the mailman. But not Puck. Puck was the heavyweight champion of bird banter, the undisputed parrot prodigy, the feathered freak of the dictionary world. By the end of his life, this pint-sized chatterbox had racked up 1,528 words — more than most toddlers, and let’s be honest, more than a few adults whose vocabulary has been whittled down to “dude,” “literally,” and “no worries.”

If you tried to teach Puck a word a day, you’d still be at it four years later — meanwhile forgetting your own passwords and the name of your neighbor. Puck could’ve filed a tax return, ordered a pizza, and called to complain when it showed up cold — all while the rest of us were still searching for our car keys.

And here’s the part that makes your stomach drop: parrots don’t just stockpile words. They stockpile time. Lots of it. African greys, macaws, cockatoos — these birds are basically winged Methuselahs. Eighty years? Standard issue. Ninety? Tuesday. A hundred? Sure, why not. Which means your parrot isn’t just laughing with you today — it’ll be laughing at you fifty years from now, when you’re long gone and it’s still heckling the dog.

There’s something deeply unfair about that. We pace ourselves, eat right, try to sleep more — only to get outlived by a creature who snacks on sunflower seeds and chews drywall for fun. Imagine your entire legacy distilled down to a parrot sitting on a stranger’s perch, belting out your signature line: “Did you unplug the iron?” That’s immortality, parrot-style.

And just when you think it can’t get stranger, it does. Because some parrots don’t just outtalk you. They don’t just outlive you. They inherit you. Real money. Mansions. Trust funds. One African grey named Kalu was written into a will and wound up the proud owner of a South African estate. There are cockatoos perched on estates and bank accounts fat enough to make human heirs grind their teeth. Picture a courtroom showdown where the richest heir in the room interrupts the proceedings with a crisp, “Objection!” …followed by a wolf whistle.

Owning a parrot isn’t like buying a pet. It’s like entering a long-term contract with a loud, feathered roommate who will not only bury you in mocking imitations but might also bury you in the fine print of your own estate. You think you’re the master, the caretaker, the provider — but give it eighty years and the bird’s still around, living on your dime, still asking “Who’s a pretty boy?” while you’ve been compost for decades.

So here’s the truth: bringing home a parrot is less like adopting a pet and more like onboarding a tiny, winged business partner who’s in it for the long haul. Puck proved they can outtalk you. Thousands of long-lived greys and cockatoos prove they can outlast you. And Kalu? Kalu proved they can outspend you.

You think you’re buying a parrot. What you’re really buying is your replacement.

Puck’s record vocabulary, the century-long lifespan of macaws, even the bizarre tales of “wealthy parrots” inheriting mansions — all of it is remarkable. Yet when you step back, you see something deeper. Parrots can mimic words, but only humans can pour out prayers to their Maker. Jehovah gave us the gift of true language so that “the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart will be acceptable” to him (Psalm 19:14, NWT). Parrots may outlast an owner for a few decades, but Jehovah’s purpose was for humans to live forever (Ecclesiastes 3:11, NWT). And while a bird might perch on an earthly fortune, Jesus reminded us: “Stop storing up for yourselves treasures on the earth… Rather, store up for yourselves treasures in heaven” (Matthew 6:19-20, NWT).

So the wonder isn’t just in what parrots can do — it’s in what Jehovah has given us: the voice to praise him, the life to last forever, and the riches that no feathered heir could ever inherit.