75 Godiva, late Thursday night

Eliot gnawed at the spot where his feathers met his fur with his beak. That sentence was the downside of this whole "griffon" thing. He was trying to get the damned dried chocolate out of his . . . pelt from his time practicing flying around the preserve today, chasing and getting chased by cotton candy clouds.

Dried sugar was a bitch to get out of both feathers and fur.

"Can someone get my brush? The really bristly one? Or -- possibly a curry comb. . . ."

[for the partners! And potentially epic slowplay.]