“Becky called you a spithead,” she said as she approached the rim of the aqua-colored tank. “Feel free to give her a whacking big spit bath next time she comes down. But you won’t spit at me, right, my bright yet moody friend? I’m your favorite volunteer, right? And you’re, no question, my favorite whale. Pals don’t spit at pals, right?”
Right. Odds, maybe 50/50.
And the worst part—the staff biologists had started it all by design, when they encouraged the belugas’ natural ability to press ice-cold mouthfuls of water through their lips in forceful streams, creating lovely upward spraying fountains. The belugas performed the behavior on cue, a good husbandry measure and crowd pleaser. However, Juneau would often spit without warning to send messages like “take a hike.” Shannon’s kind of girl. Except when the whale lobbed a torrent of salty water right at her face.
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