After we’ve slaughtered almost everything, we go for the meerkats.
They’re herded into corners, rounded into sacks and pillowcases, brought to me still wriggling. I’m locked in the kitchen with them. I have no choice but to bash their skulls till they stop writhing, ram car antennae down their throats, grill them like shish kebab.
The macaw parrots: de-feathered and deep fried. The lonely Patagonian anteater? Barbecued and served with canned peaches. I’m ordered to cook even the pangolin, this mysterious weird armadillo-type thing with scales which I have to soften in boiling water then snip the scales off one by one so I can skin it and turn it into stew.
There is a sleepy sloth in a cage of its own attached to the zoo offices, like the sloth is treated special. It’s been overlooked ev
