Paco was in a hurry, though he didn't particularly know why. Tools jangled in the pocket of his kaftan, and he held a few in each hand. It was mostly wrenches. He couldn't remember what size had been asked for, so he just grabbed a bunch that seemed right. Even now he was still trying to remember if it was 5/8 or 3/8 or if it was even eighths at all, and not being able to remember was a source of agitation. Or maybe he couldn't remember because he was agitated. He never knew. He came in the back door a little too fast, head down, tail up. He swerved around the kitchen table and headed for the swinging door that led into the big, nice dining room they never used. He headbutted the door and was halfway over the threshold when a powerful talon grabbed him by the collar and lifted him into the air. He was hoisted up to Mrs. Guilford's eye level, which had his feet dangling some distance from the floor. She gave him a mild eagley glare, holding him at wing's length. A wrench hit the floor.
"Paco," she said in an admonishing tone, "Were you about to walk all over my wall-to-wall carpeting with those dirty feet?"
He looked at the floor bashfully and dropped another wrench. "Eh, no, er, si..." he replied.
She put him back down on the hard pine kitchen floor.
"What are we going to do with you?" she sighed, as Paco began picking up the dropped tools, a neverending task at its current rate of one wrench dropped for each one picked up. "Go on, I'll bring the tools to George. You just... Go wash up."
Paco let himself be shooed away, handing over the handful of wrenches and screwdrivers, and Mrs. Guilford took them through the nice dining room. The precious carpet squished softly under her weight, and the floorboards beneath it groaned. She arrived at the far end of the room, past the long Duncan Phyfe dining table, where Mr. Guilford was busy with a table of a different sort. He had it turned over on its side with the mechanical workings of it exposed, seated on the floor beside staring at it.
"Here's the things you sent Paco to get. Will it be ready in time?" She asked, offering the array of tools like a fanned-out hand of cards.
"Criminently, all I wanted was a 9/16," he replied. He put the heap of wrenches on the floor and found the one he needed, then resumed his adjustments to the automatic bridge table. He grumbled. "It'll be ready... Every time I put this contraption together, something doesn't work right. Why am I always buying you Christmas presents with gears and motors and things?" Something under the table pinched his finger badly, and he swiftly put it in his beak. "This year, you're getting jewelry!"
She laughed sweetly. "Oh George, what would I do with jewelry?" she asked, and bent over to kiss his forehead.

Rote walked as quickly as he could up to the back door, leaning to one side. He was carrying a bucket that seemed nearly as heavy as he was. When he got to the back step, he paused and let the bucket thump on the grass. He took a few deep breaths, looking down at Paco, who was sitting on the step with his forehead on his knees. He didn't acknowledge Rote's arrival.
"If you need something to do, I can find you something," Rote said, in a mildly chiding tone.
Paco looked up quickly, and the crest of feathers on his head stood up. He only felt embarrassment, but he probably looked annoyed. Rote shook his head, and hefted the bucket up to his hip.
"If you're not gonna help, at least get out of the way," Rote said, and nudged the roadrunner with his foot.
Paco stood up and watched Rote go inside, screen door banging behind him. For some reason he felt as if someone was going to swat him with a broom.
"I got the butter," Rote said, placing the bucket on the kitchen table.
Mr. Guilford was staring at the oven door, wings at the ready, an oven mitt on each one. He was well braced, but unsure of himself.
"Should we check on them?" Rote asked, and moved to crack the oven door open.
"No no! Don't touch it!" Mr. Guilford snapped, swatting Rote's wing. "If you open the door it'll ruin 'em."
"No it won't. Ain't we supposed to stick a toothpick in them, or some such thing?"
"That's for cakes! You don't do that with cookies."
"Mrs. G said they were cakes."
"They're called tea cakes, but they're cookies."
"Well why do they call 'em cakes?"
"I don't know! But I know a durn cookie when I see one."
"They're gonna burn..."
"They ain't gonna burn! They only been in there ten minutes."
Mr. Guilford used his mitted hand to check the fire in the oven again. It was still there.
"Why are you so edgy? They're just cookies," Rote asked, wings on his hips. Mr. Guilford turned solemnly to the little blue parrot.
"Look, it's very important that this bridge party of hers goes well. Maybe it's just some ol' ladies gabbing and drinking iced tea to you, but socialization is inordinately dear to Edith. She hasn't been able to go anywhere or see hardly anyone since all this magical nonsense started, and I hate seeing how down it's got her. She's asked us to help her with something that's very, very important to her. So these dadblamed cookies have to be perfect, get it?" The eagle finished with the sort of intense side-eye that only raptors can replicate, and Rote nodded.
The two of them stared at the oven door, quietly anxious.
"All right..." Mr. Guilford said. "I'm gonna check 'em. Be ready."
"R-ready for what?" Rote asked, equally out of his depth in baking.
"I don't know! Just be ready!"

Nestor carried the rolled-up rug from the parlor back in from outside. It was a big eight by twelve, and heavy as a dead body, but he held it up on his shoulder securely. He almost ran into Paco when he turned the corner into the parlor.
"Ope!" the gull exclaimed, wheeling the rug around and bumping a lamp.
Paco hopped out of his way apologetically, and Nestor managed to catch the lamp and keep hold of the rug in one very coordinated burst of effort. His broad chest strained with the effort of setting the lamp back up while balancing the rug. He trembled with the effort of keeping his movements gentle. When the lamp was upright on the table again, he carefully let the rug thump on the floor and sighed with relief. Paco was near frozen, only able to fidget with anxiety. Nestor looked down at him. The roadrunner looked at the floor, gripping the end of his beak, contrite and fearful of further beratement.
"You're having one of your bad days, aren't you?" Nestor asked softly.
Paco didn't respond except to look up into Nestor's eyes.
"I could tell when you woke up this morning. It's all right..." Nestor said quietly, drawing Paco in with a wing. He hugged the roadrunner briefly, but Paco found the constriction disagreeable. Nestor opened his wings and understandingly let him push away. He tried holding Paco's hand, and that seemed to be an acceptable compromise.
"Come on, let's go somewhere quiet. There's too much going on around here," Nestor urged, tugging Paco along by the hand. On their way to the back door, they passed by Rote and Mr. Guilford. The pair of them were still preoccupied with the tea cakes, so much so that they didn't notice Nestor scoop up a wingful and slip them into Paco's kaftan pocket. They snickered to each other and left the baking birds to debate whether or not the "burnt parts could be scraped off."
They were halfway across the backyard when Paco asked "So where we goin?"
"Oh, I guess we'll find out when we get there," Nestor replied whimsically.
Eventually they arrived at the front door of the barn.
"The first date you take me on in ages, and it's to the barn," Paco said.
"Hey, it's a nice place," Nestor said, opening the door for Paco. "Food's not great, but the ambiance is delightful and you never need a reservation!" They laughed as they went inside, into the dark and dusty building with its lauded ambiance, shared only with certain caverns. Paco wandered across the sandy dirt floor to a horse stall, and looked up at its occupant.
"The food's no good, and the staff is lazy," Paco joked, reaching up to pat Buckshot on the chest fondly.
The colossal horse snorted down at the roadrunner, looking mildly affronted.
Paco laughed. "Ay, why don't you go outside then? Walk away from your feedbag; get some exercise."
Buckshot blew air through his lips.
"Oh, I get it," Paco replied. "You're a retired horse of leisure now. Livin' is easy around here; you don't gotta pull the wagon no more."
Buckshot made a self-satisfied whicker.
"Okay, but you gonna get fat!" Paco chuckled.
Buckshot looked back at his flank, and shrugged.
Paco reached into his pocket and pulled out a tea cake for Buckshot. The towering horse lowered his head to eat it, and Paco pet his nose.
"Come on, let's find a nice table," Nestor said, taking Paco by the hand again, giving Buckshot a pat himself.
"Not too close to the kitchen," Paco responded, and squeezed Nestor's hand. As they continued to walk along, he looked up at the big gull with a dreamy smile. He felt better already. Being with Nestor made him feel a sense of peace he never felt on his own. It didn't matter that the barn wasn't really a Michelin-starred establishment. As long as Nestor was there, it felt like the Ritz. They climbed the ladder to the loft, and found a pleasant spot to sit among the alfalfa. Nestor sat on the floor and leaned back against the bales, and Paco laid his head in the gull's lap. The air was warm, and full of sparkling particles wherever sunlight streamed through the gaps in the planks. It was quiet. Paco felt the last of his tension sublimate into the aether.
"Does your head hurt?" Nestor asked softly, and brushed his fingers on Paco's scalp. "I know you get those headaches on your bad days..."
Paco shook his head no, but Nestor's talons raked gently anyway, massaging through the crest on Paco's head. Paco let his eyes close.

Four sharp knocks on the front door, followed by the bright buzz of the bell. Mrs. Guilford shot upright and dropped the tweezers she had been using on the drapes. When she abruptly straightened her back, her head conked the gas light fixture, setting it to swinging and tinkling as she rubbed the back of her head. 13-foot ceilings hardly seemed high enough anymore... She dashed to the entry hall, trying not to shake the floor too much, and stopped by the hall tree. She bent over and looked in the mirror, checking her feathers, her dress. Everything seemed in order, except for the accepted abnormalities in size... She braced herself and opened the front door.
"Oh, it's only you," Mrs. Guilford said with relief upon seeing who it was.
"Only me?" said the red hen standing on the porch, putting her wings on her hips haughtily and looking up at the eagle. "There's a fine welcome after four months!"
"It's LOVELY to see you, Beatrice!" Mrs. Guilford said theatrically.
"That's more like it!" the stout chicken said, and strode into the house, head passing by at chest height on the eagle. "Well, the old place looks all right," Beatrice said, craning her neck and darting her head around curiously.
"Of course it does, what on earth do you mean?" Mrs. Guilford asked.
"Well, I half expected it to be collapsed or something, with all the stories I've heard about what's been going on over here. You wouldn't believe what's been going around the Fleischer rumor mill!"
Mrs. Guilford, narrowed her eyes. "You are the Fleischer rumor mill."
The hen looked smug. "My dear, I deal in vicious gossip at a county-wide level!"
Mrs. Guilford's nervous tension finally broke, and she laughed. Beatrice joined her.
"It really is wonderful to see you again," Mrs. Guilford said fondly.
"Oh, you too dear. I've been sick to death worrying about you."
The pair went into the sitting room adjacent to the dining room. Half of it was a round wall formed by the turret at the front of the house. It had four windows making a wide, sunny view of the countryside. The pocket doors to the dining room were open, and altogether it was a grand, inviting space for entertaining. It was just as Mrs. Guilford had designed it to be. They sat by the windows, and Mrs. Guilford watched the road anxiously.
"How long do you suppose the others will be?" She asked.
"Haven't a clue," Beatrice replied, wedging herself into her chair. "You know how that Delphinia Fluvenall is. She'd be late to her own funeral." The hen spoke in a self-assured way, confident that her aspersions were all of the highest veracity.
Mrs. Guilford fidgeted with the tassels on a nearby lampshade. "You don't suppose this was a bad idea, do you?"
"Of course not. Why would you say that?" the hen answered in her brusque, cackling voice.
"I just wonder if... We can all have a, normal gathering. Like I'd hope."
"What's abnormal about it? Are we gonna play bridge nekkid in the graveyard?"
Mrs. Guilford's hackles fluffed. "No! I'm just worried about my appearance, that's all."
"We've already seen you at church. They already know you're as big as a house; they ain't gonna be surprised."
"No, I guess not, but... I don't know. I just worry we won't be able to overlook it. It might taint the mood."
Beatrice looked up at her friend with a pensive sigh. The eagle seated across from her was too big to use a chair. Even seated on the floor as she was, her head hovered above the hen's. Despite her tremendous size, she looked vulnerable. A protective urge welled up in Beatrice.
"Well, Edie, I'll tell you something. If anyone gets it into their head that they don't want to have a nice time, well, I'm gonna change their mind for 'em!" She thumped the arm of the chair.
Mrs. Guilford smiled and shook her head. "What would I do without you, Bea?"
Beatrice clucked. "You'll see. Everything will be just fine."
"Oh dear, I completely forgot I made iced tea..." Mrs. Guilford said, and started to rise from the floor.
"No no, I'll get it!" Beatrice said, hopping out of the chair and striding towards the dining room. "Or... I know who'll get it! George Guilford! I know you're in there somewhere!" the hen called out, storming deeper into the house.

Paco felt his head rise and fall with Nestor's breathing. The gull's belly was his favorite pillow. He had completely forgotten the flustered anxiety that had gripped him earlier. He couldn't think of a reason for it. Probably there never had been one. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a tea cake. He was expecting something sweet, so when he bit into it he was a little disappointed.
"These cookies aren't very tasty," he said, but finished it anyway.
"Oh yeah? Let me have one." Nestor took a tea cake and ate it in one bite. "Well, what do you expect? Rote and Mr. G made them. I think they're all right though."
"If you like em, you can have all of em," Paco said, and pulled the remaining tea cakes out of his pocket with a shower of crumbs. He put the stack on Nestor's chest.
Nestor chuckled, and took another one. "why do I always get everyone's leftovers?"
"'Cause you always eat 'em," Paco replied.
"Do you remember that place in Matamoros that had the best fried fish I'd ever tasted?" Nestor asked, snapping his head back to wolf down the tea cake.
"I remember the owner was scared to get his fingers too close when he brought out the third plate."
"And you still made me finish yours!"
"I didn't make you..."
Nestor's belly gurgled, and the sound caused him to swallow the next tea cake with trepidation.
"Uh oh!" Paco said, but in a way that seemed more excited than concerned.
Nestor rubbed his belly, brushing Paco's head in the process. "Now what in the world could'a been in those cookies?" Nestor asked, as if he couldn't believe his lousy luck.
A second later, the gull's middle expanded with a loud grumble, drawing his buttons tight. Paco giggled.
"You really stepped in it now, big fella!" He squeezed Nestor's gut.
"Oh don't act like it's my fault!" Nestor replied, undoing the buttons from his collar down. "Lift your head so I can get this unbuttoned..."
He had grown almost too fat to undo the last button when he got to it, but he managed to fight against the tension and get the button through the hole. His shirt flew open around his swollen belly when it was finally released. He sighed.
Paco laid his head back on that fluffy white pillow of a belly. He listened to it gurgle, and felt it continue to slowly swell. "That's much better..." the roadrunner cooed.
"I bet it was the butter. It would have been all right if they hadn't used too much," Nestor guessed.
Paco patted his wings on the gull's flanks, making Nestor's belly bounce under his head. He was making no secret of how much he was enjoying it, despite Nestor's mild embarrassment.
"I think you better get this button open too, if you don't want to drag out the sewing kit again!" Paco said, working on the extraordinarily tight button holding Nestor's jeans closed.
Nestor sighed. It was actually true... He let Paco unbutton his fly and together they pulled the tightening trousers off his pudgy thighs.
"Thanks. I always know I can count on you to help when my pants are on the line," Nestor said, with a teasing twinge of irony.
"Anything for you, mejor amigo~" Paco buried his beak between Nestor's thighs and belly and waggled his head, making the amply fattened gull jiggle.
Nestor draped his wings over his gut, feeling it grow inch by inch. He thought of the rest of the tea cakes, and wondered what might be happening elsewhere to Mrs. G's guests. His thoughts were interrupted by a tea cake being shoved into his face. He whined in protest.
"Aw, come on! Might as well..." Paco said, waggling the cookie enticingly and massaging Nestor's soft gut. Well, more of a grope really.
With a roll of his eyes and a crack of a smile, Nestor relented. He scarfed it with all his characteristic gusto and continued to his burgeoning burbles.

"I bid two hearts," a raccoon said.
"Four hearts," replied Beatrice.
"Pass," said the white goose to Beatrice's left.
"Three spades?" Mrs. Guilford said hopefully, looking across the table at Beatrice.
The raccoon looked at her cards with a noticeable lack of confidence. "Pass," she said.
"Six spades!" Beatrice announced, and bit into her tea cake with a smirk.
"Pass," the goose said softly, stirring her tea.
"Pass," Mrs. Guilford said happily.
"Pass," said the raccoon, propping her cheek up on her hand and licking crumbs off her fingers.
Beatrice clucked gleefully, and Mrs. Guilford placed her cards on the table among the teacups and the finely decorated china plates. The automatic bridge table was a bit crowded with the surplus of refreshment the eagle had provided.
"Dummy again, poor thing..." the goose said, laying a card on the table.
Mrs. Guilford gave a good-natured shrug.
"So they like the butter, eh Delphie?" Beatrice asked, taking a card out of Mrs. Guilford's hand.
"Oh yes, I think it's the butter that does the best," the goose replied, brushing crumbs off her expensive-looking dress with her wing. "I can't keep it on the shelf. People will come in and ask for that Guilford butter when we don't have any, and leave empty-handed even if there's different butter to be had."
The raccoon hiccuped while biting into a tea cake, creating a small cascade of crumbs. The others glanced at her just as her stomach made a loud growling noise.
"Oh, pardon me..." the raccoon said, ears pinned back, and played her card.
"Yes, well..." the goose went on. "We'll take all of that butter you can send to the store."
"Do you like it as well, Delphinia?" Mrs. Guilford asked with a round-eyed, hopeful look. Beatrice scooped the cards off the center of the table.
"I, uh, haven't tried it myself..." the goose said, and laid a card on the table. "I'm certain it's delicious, I mean it must be, I just haven't taken the time..."
"Haven't you?" Beatrice said with a side-eye, and set down a card.
Attention turned to the raccoon, expecting her turn, but she paused. She placed a paw on her chest as if her tea cake hadn't gone down quite right, and her belly growled again. Her dress tightened around her.
"Mary dear, are you feeling all right?" the goose asked.
"Oh, yes! I'm fine..." the raccoon put her card on the stack, and her dress creaked quietly around her bosom as she grew a little plumper.
"I think... HIC!" the goose said, and covered her beak with a napkin. Her eyes went a little wider, feeling herself fatten with a similar burble.
Mrs. Guilford looked a little worried. Her guests were expanding, and the fate of her party seemed to be teetering over a precipice of disaster. No one had yet noticed, since she was rather portly to begin with, but Beatrice was getting fatter too. The others were finally alerted to the sound of the sash around her waist starting to rip, and watched in mild shock as the round hen bloated even rounder, belly pressing into the table. They looked at each other for a few awkward seconds, and no one knew what to think. Finally Beatrice reached for her plate, very pointedtly ate another tea cake, and slapped a nine of spades on the table.
"That's five tricks!" the hen said with a triumphant jiggle.
Delphinia felt her sides expand again. Beatrice was waiting for her to take her turn... She placed a six of diamonds on the table and surrendered to the absurdity of the moment.
Mrs. Guilford looked relieved.

Nestor relaxed into himself. He had finished the whole stack of tea cakes a while ago, and subsequently developed into a broad white mound. Paco was resting on him, lying face down on that fleecy cloud of a belly, outspread wings matching its diameter. Paco slithered his chin up Nestor's chest and preened at the feathers jutting out at fluffy angles from the doughy tire of flab encircling the gull's head. Nestor chirped happily, and the roadrunner scooted up his body to reach his nibbling beak higher up his head. As he went, Nestor hugged him around the middle. His wings squeezed the roadrunner's sides, and what they felt got a chuckle out of him.
"Oh that's right, you ate one too..." Nestor cooed, swirling his hands on Paco's pillowy flanks.
Paco sat up, straddling the heap of gull with his thighs, and lifted his kaftan. He revealed a chubby middle of his own, noticeably bigger but still nothing compared to Nestor's present achievements in obesity. Nestor stroked his wings on Paco's pot belly and his thicker legs, Lifting the excess gut and letting it drop with a bounce.
"Hah, looks like you..." Nestor started to say, but the loud groaning from the floorboards beneath him interrupted. The creaking and shuddering died down to ominous silence.
"I think it'll-" Paco started to say, and the floor suddenly gave way beneath them. With dust and tumbling alfalfa bales and alarmed squawking and a cacophonous crashing of timber, they fell to the ground level of the barn. When the dust cleared, they lay where they had landed, right on top of Buckshot. The horse was splayed out under the enormous gull, and Paco was still on top of Nestor. A single alfalfa bale thumped the dusty floor. Buckshot glared, and the birds grinned apologetically.

"Goodbye, girls!" Mrs. Guilford said from the porch, waving her giant wing. Mary and Delphinia waddled their way down the front steps, clothes barely hanging on around their humongously fat bodies.
"Goodbye, dear... We shall have to do this again sometime..." Delphinia said, grimacing and holding herself unsteadily, while the sloshing raccoon beside her munched another tea cake.
"Well I thought that went well," Beatrice said, standing beside Mrs. Guilford and waving. The hen was massive, startling to behold.
"Thanks to you, Bea. I'm so glad you were here," Mrs. Guilford said.
"Aw, they woulda had fun anyway," the hen said, planting her wings on her hips. Her colossally fat belly swayed with the maneuver.
"It certainly seemed like Delphie got quite a shock when she started blowing up."
"She makes it seem that way, doesn't she? Well, I happen to know that she does like your butter."
"She does?"
Beatrice nodded. "Uses it for everything. I've seen her taking it home from their store with my own eyes."
"Really..."
"And how. So don't you listen to any of these uptight biddies. They're all eating your butter and drinking your milk and making hash out of your potatoes."
"Hard to imagine..." Mrs. Guilford brought a wing to her wondering beak.
"Oh? Well picture this. I heard that Georgina Cramford's husband asks her to buy a bottle of Guilford's banana oil every time she goes out, because when she drinks it her-"
"Oh!" Mrs. Guilford interrupted. "I don't know if I should be hearing this!"
"All right; I won't tell you..." the fat hen trundled back into the house slowly and squeezed her hips through the door. The eagle followed her intently, after a moment asking:
"Her what?"