One day, about a year ago, I was out for a walk when I bumped into one of my neighbors. She is one of the those consistantly cheerful sorts, who's major claim to fame was feeding that repulsive feral cat. So being polite, I asked how kitty was doing, at which point she turned into a bobble head and the conversation went something like this:
Me: "So how's it going with Mr. Kitty?"
BH: "Blah, blah, blah, Mr. Biggie's got a buddy."
Me to myself: "Oh great. Now there's two and soon there will be a hundred. Great, just great."
BH: "Blah, blah, blah, and they share with each other. It was so sweet, blah, blah, blah. But they won't share with the fox."
Me: Shreik: FOX !!! A fox approached you? Did it look sick? Was it rabid? Do we need to call animal contol? Where exactly did that fox come from?"
BH: "I don't it where it came from. It looked perfectly healthy, only it was sort of small and it looked hungry."
Me: "Was it a tiny, baby fox?"
BH: "No, it looked like it had just been kicked out of the nest. Sort of a tween aged fox."
Me: "Den," I corrected to myself, not wanting to get into a discussion of den verses nest.
BH: Continuing along, unabated. "It was a pretty, golden color, but the kitties just didn't like it and wouldn't share. In fact, Mr. Biggie, smacked it right in the face and then it ran off."
Walking away from this scintilating discusion, hard as that was to do, I continued on and promptly forgot it.
Things stayed that way for the next few months.