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“According to my father’s journal and Laken, Phoebe had arrived two weeks before I did, which made sense for her anxiety levels. Unfortunately, her past had left her skin pretty raw and needing help to recover if we ever wanted her quills to grow back completely. She had a few here and there, but the vast majority remained injured. The irony was not lost on me. This little porcupine princess with a pink bed had enough poison in her body to take down an army. Twenty could be killed with just one quill. Attacking the body’s muscles first, then the heart, it’d be a quick death. All the more reason to keep her from the poachers.”

“One spring day in particular, when flowers were just blooming and the breeze was calm, one of our hellblazers broke into the house and flew around hysterically, scorching the place. Roasted Chicken---named by a nine-year-old with witty humor, as all the chickens were named after chicken entrees--- wreaked havoc. The difference between a regular chicken and a hellblazer is the latter spits flames. And this mother-clucking flock had been rescued from an underground fighting ring--- they were feisty.”

“Moving to the enclosure hosting a white wooden home, completed with a pink cushioned bed, I stood over the little gate but saw nothing. Knowing Phoebe and the deadly prickler she was, she’d stay unseen if she wanted. Her anxiety made sure of it. Phoebe: seven, deadly prickler porcupine, poisonous spikes removed by poacher / goes invisible when nervous. Carefully pouring some whack-ass mixture of leaves and berries, I tilted the bucket. It took exactly four seconds for Phoebe to appear— three inches from my face, standing on her hind legs. Endless abyss of shadow-filled eyes poured into my very being. Screaming, I sent a combination of vulgar words into the world as I fell on my ass. Berries rolled, I scurried, and my legs scattered under me. I dove out of the gate, breathing and noting that Phoebe had vanished again. Everything went downhill after that. Swallowing whatever mixture of raw emotions remained in my throat, I fixed the skirt of my dress, wiping my hands on its brown cotton fabric, and held my tongue. Keep going, Reece. Butters, the bear, stood on the opposite side of the pasture. Butters: ten, pimbrough bear, only eats veggies and fruit / starved in cage as cub. Pimbrough bears are known for (1) skin that cannot be pierced, and (2) producing a fluid under their fur that has been known to provide the same shield-like properties if curated correctly. They’re often hunted and caged, which was how Butters was found. His body had grown to fit the cage. With his bad bones, he couldn’t hunt and survive in the wild on his own.”

“I opened my father’s journals and tried to read the scribbling of a middle-aged man with no organization skills. Each creature had its own row with its name, age, species, and notes. First on the list: Indo—easy. Indomitus: seventy, horned ash dragon, cannot fly nor breathe fire / trauma with poachers / scars. Considering he’d been here since before I was born, I knew he was fed in the woods near the water. He didn’t come out to be seen, but I wasn’t surprised. He never was social. I left it at that, leaving his food on a boulder. Next on the list: goats. Finneas and Finnigan: six, dassin goats, Finneas’s eyes pecked out after abandoned / Finnigan is brother don’t separate. Side note: discovered they’re females; keeping the names. Their milk has healing properties, hence the creams we sell.”