Cards... flash cards? Postcards? It doesn't matter. He's... angry now. Honestly. Or as close to 'angry' as he can muster, which is more like--

A reflex. An instinct. The recognition of an expectation and his inability, his illegitimacy, his incohesion and how it's he's she's wrong, wrong, wrong.

"It's not special," he tells her, claws curling at the side of his muzzle--just one paw, his ursine shape not designed to lift two that easily.

"It's just a bird, it's just a carcass, it's just a failure, it's just fucking trash!"

He's... not just talking about the bird.