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penguin investigative services

There’s a penguin in the shrubbery staring at my neighbor’s house.

He’s still there when I go to get the mail, so I walk over to see what he’s up to.

He freezes and looks shifty-eyed for a moment and it seems like he might run away but he doesn’t. I think he snuffs out a cigarette on the ground before I reach him but I can’t tell for sure.

I ask what he’s doing.

Classified, the penguin says, with an apologetic shrug.

When I start to walk away he asks me if I’ve seen anything suspicious, which I haven’t. He seems disappointed but he gives me his card and asks me to contact him if I do and then he warns me not to talk to tigers and leaves.

The card says “P.I.” and contacting him involves leaving a pie to cool in a south-facing window, so I don’t think much of it and make a mental note to ask my neighbor if he knows anything about the penguin next time I see him.

The tiger knocks on my door just after dark but I don’t answer, and as soon as he gives up and stalks off I start baking.

 

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

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