They puke every chance they can.... He would get roadkill and fresh-shot meat. He would hobble like a wooden-legged pirate over to a cinder block with his dinner. He'd flop it up on the hot block and let it cook in the sun until it was putrid. Might take a day or too until it was rotten enuff to suit him. Then he'd woof it down. After a day in his gut, he'd puke it up on the cinder block and cook it some more. When he finally ate it that second time, it'd stay down... He was a hoot, tho. He'd ride my brothers shoulder like a parrot. Hang on with his good foot and use his stump, back and forth, for balance. He healed well before winter and wouldn't leave his cush new home for warmer climes. Froze to death one night that winter.....
Have ever considered writing children's novels?
