People ask me sometimes, “Do you ever see live animals?” And I always want to respond, “Only when I leave the house.” But the truth is, I once had a very specific, very tall writing buddy named Kevin. Kevin was a giraffe. And not just any giraffe—he was the George Clooney of giraffes. Tall, charismatic, and always looked like he knew something you didn’t.
I met Kevin during my writing sabbatical. That’s a fancy way of saying I was unemployed but trying to make it sound like a creative choice. I had left my job to “focus on my craft,” which mostly meant drinking too much coffee and staring at blinking cursors. I needed a place to write that wasn’t my apartment, where the siren song of laundry and snacks was too strong. That’s how I ended up at the National Zoo.
The zoo is free, which was a major selling point. I found a bench near the giraffe enclosure—shady, quiet, and far enough from the Dippin’ Dots stand to avoid temptation. That’s where I met Kevin. He was the giraffe who always looked like he was about to offer unsolicited life advice. You know the type.
At first, I thought it was coincidence. I’d sit down, open my notebook, and Kevin would wander over and stare at me like I was the most confusing exhibit in the zoo. He’d chew thoughtfully, blink slowly, and then—this is the part that still gets me—he’d sit down. Like, fold his legs under him and plop down like a 2,600-pound golden retriever. Right next to me. Every. Single. Time.
It became a routine. I’d show up with my coffee and my writerly angst, and Kevin would settle in like my editor-in-chief. I imagined him reading over my shoulder, judging my metaphors. “Really? Another story about your feelings? Have you considered plot?”
Sometimes, kids would come by and point at him. “Look, Mommy! That giraffe is broken!” Kevin didn’t care. He was too busy supervising my character development. I started writing stories about him. In one, he was a disgruntled barista who only served espresso to people who could spell “macchiato.” In another, he was a noir detective solving crimes in the zoo after dark. His catchphrase was, “Stick your neck out, and you might just find the truth.”
I never showed those stories to anyone. They were just for me. And maybe for Kevin. He seemed like the kind of guy who appreciated a good pun.
Then one day, Kevin wasn’t there. I waited. I sipped my coffee. I even read aloud a particularly dramatic paragraph, hoping he’d come out and roll his eyes. Nothing. Just a bunch of other giraffes who clearly didn’t understand the gravity of our creative partnership.
I kept coming back for a while, but it wasn’t the same. Writing without Kevin felt like doing karaoke without backup dancers. Eventually, I moved on. Got a job. Got busy. Got a little less weird. But every now and then, I think about him.
So when someone asks, “Do you ever see live animals?” I smile. Because yes, I do. I’ve seen squirrels, pigeons, and one very judgmental raccoon. But the one I remember most is Kevin—the giraffe who sat with me when I was lost, who reminded me that sometimes, the best writing partner is the one who doesn’t say a word but still makes you feel seen.
And if he ever opens a coffee shop, I’ll be first in line. As long as he doesn’t make me spell “macchiato.”
Written by Leslie Lanagan, edited by Microsoft Copilot on WhatsApp
Stories That Are All True 