There are few places one expects to be judged, but the shower should be safe. Private. Peaceful. Free from commentary.

Unless you live with an umbrella cockatoo. Julius has appointed himself the official shower supervisor, and he takes the role seriously. From his chosen perch just outside the bathroom, he leans in, head cocked, crest slightly raised, watching every move with unmistakable scrutiny.

The water turns on. Judgment begins.

He studies the steam like it’s suspicious. He listens to the water hit the floor as if it’s a questionable life choice. Every sound is met with a slow blink or a head tilt that clearly asks, Is this really necessary? Sometimes he offers commentary a quiet mutter, a sudden squawk, or an unimpressed stare that cuts deeper than words. Other times, silence. Which somehow feels worse. Julius doesn’t intervene. He doesn’t panic. He simply observes, radiating the energy of someone who would do things very differently if given the chance. You can almost hear the internal monologue: I bathe with dignity. Why don’t you?

When the water shuts off, he remains there a moment longer, as if filing a mental report. Only once you step out does he relax, crest lowering, supervision complete. Living with Julius means understanding one thing very clearly: you are never alone—and you are always being evaluated.

Even in the shower.