“Aww, look Musician. It just hopped up right in my arms. Who’s a good foxie?” The fox Wheeler holds yelps softly while she pets its head.
The second fox was more warey. He or she eyed the Musician suspiciously. “I don’t think *mine* likes me as much,” he says while staring back.
“Oh go on. Pick it up. This one’s so *friendly*. Don’t be a scardy cat.”
“I mean, why are we here playing with foxes anyway? Where’s Morris?”
“Oh Moriss Smorris,” counters Wheeler. “We have foxes! Adorable, lovable foxes. Go ahead. Pick it up,” she repeats. She just knew that The Musician *had* to hold that fox. The desire was overwhelming. “Go ahead. Call it to you. Say: ‘Here foxie foxie. Jump in my arms. Who’s a good doggie?'”
But her urging created the wrong effect. Suddenly she had *two* foxes in her arms.
“Oh dear, hee hee.”