I swear there’s no stress quite like have a cockatoo that barbers during molting season.
The bird room looks like a pillow exploded. And then there’s me, checking every feather to make sure it’s dropped and not a plucked one.
Someone commiserate with me and my anxiety please
The bird room looks like a pillow exploded. And then there’s me, checking every feather to make sure it’s dropped and not a plucked one.
Someone commiserate with me and my anxiety please