The first time I went to the zoo, I was ecstatic. Little six year old me, who had no fear, hopped into my father’s truck and was taxied to the zoo. Traffic ate away at my patience, and I started to drum on the hard plastic dashboard, and didn’t stop until we reached the zoo parking lot. The fascination with what I’d see in this “sanctuary” for animals, drove me forth through the dark entrance. My little legs pounded against pavement as I rushed ahead of my dad, the slapping of my shoes echoing in the tunnel.
We both rushed to gawk at some animals, which turned out less exciting than I had ever thought. Each just standing around, eating and pooping, pooping and eating. The animal kingdom sure was an exciting place…
We found a gift shop nearby to curb my obvious exhaustion, because what six year old doesn’t love useless things they’ll never use? On the shelves were stuffed animals, toys, educational books, stickers, and some candies as well. I went through every single stuffed animal, feeling the soft and fuzzy fabric against my face. I heard other children playing with the toys, bouncing them against the shiny tile floor. The books I skipped over because, “Words aren’t fun,” or so said the child version of myself. The candy, however, filled the room with the smell of artificial ingredients and sugar galore. I almost levitated across the room to them, and pleaded my father to buy them. But the man just looked at me and explained how he didn’t have his wallet. Rule #1 for a happy, quiet First Grader: you do not deny them candy.
I trudged out with disappointment, no merchandise in hand, and now grumpy. My dad led me around some more to see other animals until my pouting stopped, and the merry saunter that was my usual walk returned. What was the point of being angry over candy? The zoo was a happy place, so what could possibly go wrong?
Soon, we came upon an enclosure for giraffes; demons in disguise. Now, let me tell you why I think giraffes are the most grotesque genetic anomaly out there. Believe me when I say, the tongue of a giraffe is not a tongue. It is a snake. A giant, pink anaconda that sleeps in its mouth. To paint a better picture for you, a giraffe can lick any part of its face and head. If you didn’t just drop a deuce in your pants, I commend you for your glute strength. However, at that point in my life, I had no idea what a giraffe was like.
The handler of this beast spotted me, and called my father and I over. She suggested that I feed the giraffe with a carrot that she gave me. With my father’s eyes watching, I handed it to the long-necked monster; I didn’t want to disappoint him. The giraffe’s neck hunkered down, and its head came next to mine. Its tongue left the comfort of its mouth and wrapped itself around my arm. It was a sandpaper covered slug, warm and dressed in giraffe spit. It untangled from my arm, dragging along the sandpaper and leaving a fresh coat of saliva painted on my skin. As the tentacle left my limb, it took the carrot with it, and pulled it into the clutches of its mouth.
Yes, I admit, I cried and screamed through what should be a new torture method used by the government. So much so that my father, who was now frustrated, had to pick me up and leave the zoo because I was too much. Don’t tell me that this wasn’t a big ordeal, because it was. My father, however, denies the fact he was angry to this day. But if you consider the fact this entire trip to Hell…I mean the zoo, was only an hour long before some giraffe ruined it, you can tell he may be lying.
Obrien, Benjamin. “Giraffe Spider” Photo. Funcork Jan. 18, 2013. Oct. 30 2015. <http://www.funcork.com/i/3456>
Larson, Shannon. “Why do Giraffes have Black Tongues?” Photo. Quora July 31, 2010. Oct. 30, 2015. <https://www.quora.com/Why-do-giraffes-have-black-tongues>