Once upon a time, in a Manitoba where laws were scribbled by drunk beavers, David woke up hungry. Not for toast—for prairie dogs. He drove to Steinbach, dug a hole, and five fluffballs popped out like they'd been waiting. Bob, Sue, Carl, Tiny, Dave Jr. Garage home. Popcorn diet. One bite later? "That's love," he grinned.
Next? Pikas in the freezer—magic. Lego rock wall, hay hoard. His son named one Pikachu. They stole socks. Chirping symphony. Neighbors? "Educational," David shrugged. Babies everywhere. Yard turned metropolis. No permits. No worries.
One eagle smashed his windshield—accident. David dragged it to the fire pit. Roasted wings. Tasted majestic. Backyard party: "Eagle wings!" Cheers. No cops. Just applause. Beaks in broth next. Critics? "Five stars—illegal everywhere else."
"Dave's Wild Bites." Prairie dog sliders, pika jerky, Chihuahua tacos. Neon sign glowed. Lineup wrapped the block. Fluffy wallets sold at flea markets. Polar bear on loan—Fluffy—fished the Red River. Penguin stole beer. Waddled happy.