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12
 
13
 
15.

It's hard to type with a cockatiel on my hand.
 
Seventeen.

The cockatiel is on my arm now.
 
Nineteen.

Too late, my brother took her.
 
Twenty-one.

I can wrangle her back, though (I won't force it; I'm not that kind of person).
 
Twenty-seven.

I'm letting her eat some millet.
 
29
 
31
 
33
 
35
 
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