My Aunt's family has a bird named Dusty. Despite the overwhelming photographic evidence to the contrary, Dusty didn't particularly like me. I have no idea why the two of us were such a irresistable photographic subject, but obviously we were.
Dusty doesn't like it when you sneak up to her cage in the middle of the night, throw back the cover and yell "Boo!". She tends to fall off her perch and slam onto the bottom of the cage, flappying noisily and squawking.
I didn't do this, but one of my blood relations did. Proof that little girls are not composed exclusively of sugar and spice and all things nice.
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