Generally rule of thumb is that once a Can Foal is old enough to open its eyes and be aware that it’s in a can, it’s already too old.
Chirpies don’t fully grasp their trapped predicament and so the come-down of being realised is easier to handle. Talking foals are going to have immediate abandonment issue and a buttload of trauma that your average customer isn’t trained to deal with.
The best thing to do is avoid eye-contact, pretend the foal doesn’t exist, eventually it will give up trying to alert humans to its predicament. In time it will either run out of food or stop trying to feed itself and starve to death, it might seem cruel but it’s a momentary pain compared to a lifetime of never being able to left alone for extended periods of time and a constant questioning of everything they do in case anything they do gives their new owner an excuse to abandon them as well.
Never seen a can without tubes and waste storage container. This seems messy.
Keep walking….keep walking….
Put it in a paint-shaker!
I considered letting the little mongrel out. I always needed more foals, and the herd could probably keep it happy enough. Unfortunately for him, I’d ridden my bike out here (like an asshole) and simply didn’t have the space left on my person or in my backpack.
After ensuring nobody was around to witness my whimsical malice I dismounted and aimed a clumsy kick. Sending the low-quality glass spinning like some demented, shit-powered beyblade across the road, it’s occupant all the while rewarding me with a resonant “Reeeeeeee!” as the can skittered and exploded against the sidewalk on the far side of the street.
As much as I wanted to linger. The Perishables weighing me down took precedent. So I mounted up and left. Sparing a moment to look back at the hyperventilating foal. Shuddering and screaming in a strangled, breathless wheeze around the ragged spar of glass that transfixed it’s torso.