Twenty Ways to [Eat] Your [Guinea Fowl] -Paul Simon, edited

 

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Wind rustled through the evergreen branches as I admired his droopy eyes. He yawned, stretched, and sank to his knees, finally falling to his side.

I studied Applejack, knowing that he expected me, wanted me to come closer.

So I did.

I followed his example, liquifying my joints. I settled onto the ground next to him and stroked his neck.

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He promptly fell asleep on my lap.

We stayed together as the late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the trees. I stroked his neck, face, and legs.

Hannalore the cat strolled past. She must have sensed our warmth, because before I knew it, she’d cuddled up with Applejack.

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Enter: Roz.

The Guinea Fowl.

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The chitter-chatter-chitter startled me, waking Applejack, who sat up, ready to play. I begged Roz to leave, but she refused.

I cussed her out and she remained rock-steady, screaming at us.

 

Applejack grew bored of Roz’s antics, stood, and trotted off to his mother.

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Anyone know a good recipe for Guinea Fowl stew?

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