Ostrich attack! (Forestalled)
Mere minutes after our assault by ravenous zebras, we rounded a corner and were confronted by this:
One of them made a beeline for the car. And some long-buried memory, an instinctual, primal resonance of a survival tactic, kicked in.
"Roll up your window," I said to The Boy.
Sealed into our car, we watched as the ostrich lowered its head and peered at us through the glass.
It regarded us for a moment with its black, unblinking eyes, and then started opening and closing its beak as though snapping out a blistering insult.
"What does it want?" asked The Boy.
"Dunno," I said. "I never learned to beak-read."
Having said its piece, the bird moved on. We looked back to see it halt the car behind us and thrust its entire head and neck inside the vehicle. I shuddered. Rather them than me.
It was only later that I recognized the source of my discomfort: years of watching Rod Hull and Emu.