/Walks briskly to the kitchen, a bit more nimbly than someone who ingests so much alcohol really ought to, letting the two men trail behind. Glances back and snickers at the medic./ Aye, yer wee doves? I doubt they can even give a proper nip with those cute little beaks they’ve got. /Finds an empty jam jar in one of the cupboards, then starts pulling unlikely things out of the refrigerator and mixing them into some milk./ Ye don’t happen to have an extra rubber glove I can borrow, do ye Doc?
/Is being insulted left right and centre, here, and doesn’t like it in the slightest. He does his best to keep pace with the Scot, though - trying to catch up with her, even, as futile an endeavour as that may be./ You would be surprised what sort of damage a flock of angry birds can inflict, Frau DeGroot. /Can’t help but watch the mixing very warily - at least she’s not pulling things out of his refrigerator, so the chances of something lethal accidentally ending up in the mix are… low./ A what?
/Laughs./ Well, I suppose I best not be askin’ what ye’re feedin’ the creatures to make ‘em capable of that sort of behavior. An’ I hope ye’ve only got ‘em sicced on the REDs, don’t want this place turnin’ into a bloody Hitchcock film. /Sniffs at a carton of yogurt, wrinkles her nose, and tosses it in the trash./ Bloody idiots, leavin’ rancid stuff sittin’ about. Eh…an’ I need t’cut a finger off th’glove, kitty’s bottle needs a nipple, see?