giraffe night houses. Everything is really tall here, like it was stretched in a fun-house mirror. The only regular-size part is the feed shack, which is lined with shiny silver trash cans and smells like hay and gingerbread.
The giraffes are already out in the exhibit area, and Mary-Judy is busy filling big black buckets with water and yelling at the pigeons. “Get out of here, you stupid birds.” She squirts them with her hose and they scatter, making funny gobbling, cooing noises. When she sees us, she calls out, “You know, I thought maybe you and Harrison might feed Kigali. The bucket is ready. You show them, Carol.”
Just Carol laughs through her nose. She shakes her head. “You two sure won her over. Getting to feed Kigali is a
huge
treat. Come on,” she says, and leads us back around to the little feed shack. She opens the lid of a shiny new trash can and pulls out a blue bucket half filled with little green pellets. “You gotta hide everything here or the pigeons will eat it,” she explains.
We follow her to a steep set of wooden steps that lead to a platform attached to the side of the exhibit area. Harrison gets his turn first. He climbs the steps with the awkward bucket banging his chin. When hegets to the top, three giraffes hurry toward the platform, their necks bobbing with each step. Up close their eyes look as if someone has applied thick black eyeliner to them, and their top lips hang over their bottom lips, like a bad case of buck lips. But it’s their long necks I notice most—how elegant and graceful they are and how they move in directions my neck won’t go. Squat-neck Elizabeth would be so jealous.
“Don’t feed the others!” Carol warns Harrison. “Only Kigali. She’s the old one with the blind eye. See her?” Carol calls. “The rest of them don’t need extra food. Put the bucket behind you, Harrison, until they go away.”
When Just Carol says this I wonder how we will know which giraffe is old. But then I see Kigali and I understand. Her bones poke out and the skin sags between them. Her coat is dull. One eye is a perfect white ball, as blank as the moon and all runny around it and stuck with dirt. She moves stiffly and her bones creak when she walks.
“Sometimes she’s a little scared at first,” Carol calls up to Harrison.
Kigali sniffs Harrison all over, almost like a dog. Her good eye seems to be inspecting him.
“She’s checking him out,” Carol whispers to me.
And then, all of a sudden, Kigali decides Harrison is okay and dips her head into the blue bucket. Now all I see are her horns, like big brown Q-tips sticking out. When she comes back up, she has a mouthful of tiny green pellets, which she chews in great circle motions.
“I think she likes me,” Harrison calls down. He’s smiling so wide, you can see his gums.
When it’s my turn, I climb the steep ladder partway up. There’s not really room for both of us on the platform up there.
“Hey, sweet Kigali, are you the nicest giraffe in the whole world? I think you are, Kigali. I think you are,” Harrison whispers. Kigali’s tongue is black, as if she’s been eating licorice, but her spit is all slobbery and green.
“Is that good, sweetheart?” he asks.
I have heard Harrison sweet-talk his chicken this way when he doesn’t know I’m around. He has forgotten it’s my turn now. I put my hand in Pistachio’s pocket and pet him. He’s sleeping, I think. Apparently, nap time is nap time, zoo or no zoo.
Kigali and Harrison seem to see me at the same time. Kigali pulls her head out of the bucket, faces her good eye at me, and backs away. Harrison seems very sorry I am here. He doesn’t let go of the bucket.
“Just let her come to you, Ant. Harrison, you can come down now. It’s Ant’s turn,” Just Carol says.
Usually Harrison does anything Just Carol says. But not this time. Harrison doesn’t move.
“He’s got to stay up here, too. Kigali trusts him. She won’t come over unless he’s
The giraffes are already out in the exhibit area, and Mary-Judy is busy filling big black buckets with water and yelling at the pigeons. “Get out of here, you stupid birds.” She squirts them with her hose and they scatter, making funny gobbling, cooing noises. When she sees us, she calls out, “You know, I thought maybe you and Harrison might feed Kigali. The bucket is ready. You show them, Carol.”
Just Carol laughs through her nose. She shakes her head. “You two sure won her over. Getting to feed Kigali is a
huge
treat. Come on,” she says, and leads us back around to the little feed shack. She opens the lid of a shiny new trash can and pulls out a blue bucket half filled with little green pellets. “You gotta hide everything here or the pigeons will eat it,” she explains.
We follow her to a steep set of wooden steps that lead to a platform attached to the side of the exhibit area. Harrison gets his turn first. He climbs the steps with the awkward bucket banging his chin. When hegets to the top, three giraffes hurry toward the platform, their necks bobbing with each step. Up close their eyes look as if someone has applied thick black eyeliner to them, and their top lips hang over their bottom lips, like a bad case of buck lips. But it’s their long necks I notice most—how elegant and graceful they are and how they move in directions my neck won’t go. Squat-neck Elizabeth would be so jealous.
“Don’t feed the others!” Carol warns Harrison. “Only Kigali. She’s the old one with the blind eye. See her?” Carol calls. “The rest of them don’t need extra food. Put the bucket behind you, Harrison, until they go away.”
When Just Carol says this I wonder how we will know which giraffe is old. But then I see Kigali and I understand. Her bones poke out and the skin sags between them. Her coat is dull. One eye is a perfect white ball, as blank as the moon and all runny around it and stuck with dirt. She moves stiffly and her bones creak when she walks.
“Sometimes she’s a little scared at first,” Carol calls up to Harrison.
Kigali sniffs Harrison all over, almost like a dog. Her good eye seems to be inspecting him.
“She’s checking him out,” Carol whispers to me.
And then, all of a sudden, Kigali decides Harrison is okay and dips her head into the blue bucket. Now all I see are her horns, like big brown Q-tips sticking out. When she comes back up, she has a mouthful of tiny green pellets, which she chews in great circle motions.
“I think she likes me,” Harrison calls down. He’s smiling so wide, you can see his gums.
When it’s my turn, I climb the steep ladder partway up. There’s not really room for both of us on the platform up there.
“Hey, sweet Kigali, are you the nicest giraffe in the whole world? I think you are, Kigali. I think you are,” Harrison whispers. Kigali’s tongue is black, as if she’s been eating licorice, but her spit is all slobbery and green.
“Is that good, sweetheart?” he asks.
I have heard Harrison sweet-talk his chicken this way when he doesn’t know I’m around. He has forgotten it’s my turn now. I put my hand in Pistachio’s pocket and pet him. He’s sleeping, I think. Apparently, nap time is nap time, zoo or no zoo.
Kigali and Harrison seem to see me at the same time. Kigali pulls her head out of the bucket, faces her good eye at me, and backs away. Harrison seems very sorry I am here. He doesn’t let go of the bucket.
“Just let her come to you, Ant. Harrison, you can come down now. It’s Ant’s turn,” Just Carol says.
Usually Harrison does anything Just Carol says. But not this time. Harrison doesn’t move.
“He’s got to stay up here, too. Kigali trusts him. She won’t come over unless he’s
Similar Books
