Well, then we got interested.

Tusky kep' the fire goin' and I rustled greasewood.

We cooked her three days and three nights.

At the end of that time she was sort of pale and frazzled, but still givin' points to three-year-old jerky on cohesion and other uncompromisin' forces of Nature.

We buried her then, and went out back to recuperate.
There we could gaze on the smilin' landscape, dotted by about four hundred long-laigged chickens swoopin' here and there after grasshoppers.
"We got to stop that," says I.
"We can't," murmured Tusky, inspired.