Suburban Sydney. You hear the clatter of what seems to be rubbish being tossed about, and wander over to investigate. Sure enough, the street is littered with scraps of rubbish — chip packets, plastic takeaway containers, paper, etc.

Then the culprit — a sulphur-crested cockatoo perched on the lip of the wheelie bin, head buried inside.

The sulphur-crested cockatoo, too busy with what's inside the bin, doesn't immediately notice you there. As they lift themselves out, they sense you looking at them and startles; wings flared wide, yellow crest springing up.

It turns towards you, calming down and attempting to act casual, in order to cover up what was going on; talons shuffling uncomfortably, feathers puffing back down.

"Eh, who's there? Oh... right. Well I- I was just- just checking what these guys have been putting inside their bins. I'm the bin inspector, you know? Can't be having the wrong things being chucked, ay."

After a small and nervous chuckle, the sulphur-crested cockatoo's eyes follows your gaze towards the mess strewn out across the street, bits of paper scraping along the asphalt in a weak breeze.

Even the wind senses this awkward atmosphere.

Perhaps... not the greatest alibi. The sulphur-crested cockatoo fiddles a wing contemplatively, glancing off to the side. '... yeah nah, they're definitely not buying that one.', it mutters quietly to itself.

Posing as a bin inspector as a bird, in a human city where local council services were provided by people, was never going to fool anyone after all.

Its tone of voice shifts, sharp and defiant, contrastingly to before.

"Argh, who the hell cares anyways if I'm 'littering' — at least that's what I heard it's called. It's free food, is what it is! These people throw out everything, so it ain't my problem. Blame them. Ain't a big deal, anyways."

The sulphur-crested cockatoo continues with its flippant and impudent attitude; discarding a food wrapper onto the ground with deliberate carelessness, then digs out a clear plastic takeaway container. Gripping the container with one talon, it starts shoving its beak inside, prying at leftovers — displaying a great deal of teenage-like sass throughout this entire process.

Noticing your continued looks, it speaks with its beak full, with an air of unconcern for what you might do next.

"Looking like ya gonna dob me in to Blacktown City Council, eh, mate?"