As boys we used to throw stones all the time. On our way to Sunday school one day, an older boy hit an emu with a rock, which sent him scurrying into the scrub. I remember there were white cockatoos in the trees that seemed to be laughing – or maybe communicating something else – like a warning.
Soon that emu raced back, stealth like, pecking him in the kidney so hard he needed stitches. Blood all over his white shirt and shorts. He used to tell that story until his death recently. Culture-wise, just now I’m not able to reveal my friend’s name. It was a good lesson, learned a terrible hard way.