When I was a duckling and lived…in a certain location somewhere in the world, Mother Duck and I enjoyed visiting this one particular farm, the name of which I forgot. This farm sold a bunch of baked goods and was also home to a petting zoo. And kittens. I remember, outside the petting zoo, there were sometimes a whole bunch of kittens. They were the best part.
The petting zoo was a decent-sized area surrounded by a fence and included a large pond. There were ducks (which you could definitely not pet), along with goats and other more pet-able creatures. In addition to this typical farm-fare, this petting zoo also included my nemesis…the emu.
There might have been several emu, I forget, but the emu (emus?) made the experience rather frightening. Because it (they?) liked to bite. I never understood why anyone would include an emu (or several?) in a petting zoo, considering they were such mean beasties. I would spend the entire time trying to pet the nicer animals, all the while skirting around the emu whenever one would stalk closer in an effort to take a bite out of my flesh (I might be exaggerating, but who knows…). The emu also bit the other animals, and I would often catch them nibbling on any poor unsuspecting goats that didn’t manage to get away on time.
Ever since then, I have held a bit of a grudge against the mighty emu, a bird that is all the more intimidating when you are a small child, considering they can reach six feet in height. Every time I see one of these big, flightless birds, I can’t help but remember that baffling and strangely dangerous petting zoo that was just as much fun as it was harrowing. Last time I visited a petting zoo, a kid tried to eat my clothes. Don’t worry; by kid, I mean a young goat….
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