Down on the Farm
The oviraptors are herded into the chute by Tiffin. Tiffin is a black and white
border collie, but she doesn't have any problem transferring herding instincts from
sheep to dinosaurs. The oviraptors click at each other when they're distressed and
the yard sounds like a geiger counter. It smells musky and faintly of ammonia, the
familiar oviraptor smell, although they aren't dirty creature. They groom like cats.
Or maybe more like pigeons, if the pigeons had almost no feathers. I grab the
oviraptor at the head of the chute, hoisting her into the air by the tail, and swipe
hormone gel across her cloaca and then let her go. Ravished, she scuttles towards
the egg house, hormonally activated to lay eggs for another month.

It's a strange way to make a living.

It helps to be quick, because the oviraptors are, and their muzzles are more like
beaks than soft things and they hurt when they get you. Funky looking things, sort
of like dwarf, leathery skinned ostriches with eyebrows and ridge crests of thin
feathers. People are always surprised at how birdlike they are. Of course, the truth
is that birds are really dinosaurlike.

It's not a moment when I want my cell phone to ring. "Sabiston Eggs," I say.

"Grace Sabiston?"

"Yeah?" I hold the phone between my chin and my ear and grab a brindle dinosaur
tail and haul it up into the air to swipe hormone gel on it's ass.

"This is Bobby Kestler."

Bobby Kestler is one of my distributors. He doesn't usually call me at seven-fifteen
in the morning but distributors, like farmers, start their days early. "Grace? I have
to cancel my orders."

The next oviraptor screeches just then. "What did you say?" I ask, grimly holding
up a squirming oviraptor. My right arm is really much stronger than it used to be
but I'm getting bursitis. "You have to cancel an order?"

"No," he says, "all my orders. The FDA just put a moratorium on food products
from genetically induced animals."

"Fuck," I say. "Bobby, they can't do that. What are they going to do about things
like ever-ripe tomatoes? Tobacco mosaic resistant cantaloupe?"

"Vegetables aren't animals," Bobby says. "Look, I'm sorry, but I've got make a
bunch of calls."

"What about cows?" I say. "They genetically modify cows. They genetically modify
everything."

"Genetic modification is one thing, creating species is another, at least according to
the FDA."

"Hell, half the DNA in my oviraptors isn't even from dinosaurs, its from chickens."

"Grace," Bobby says, exasperated, "I'm not the goddamn FDA, argue with them."
The connection clicks in my ear.