See the happy Wicked Dog, sleeping nicely in the tent.
See the happy writer, whose sleep-deprived mind has kicked into high gear at last after a mostly-wasted day, sitting in the tent, writing, writing, writing.
See the happy fox, trotting along the edge of the field, thinking about all the adolescent mice the kindly humans have been catching in slippers and vases and Kongs, and taking out to have a happy afternoon eating seeds on the sunny stone steps of the barn, before nature takes its brutal course.
See the Wicked Rocket Dog go from zero to sixty in the quiver of a nostril, without, so far as any evidence can attest, bothering to wake up. Straight through the side of the unhappy writer’s hard-earned screen tent.
See the fox, slightly taken aback at this rude interruption to its reveries, vanish.
See the Wicked Rocket Dog emerge from the woods blinking and confused and smelling somewhat skunky, as foxes do. Wait! What happened? Wasn’t I in the tent just now?
See the very, very unhappy writer, words all scattered and gone and only to be laboriously and ploddingly groped for and regathered later, sewing up the huge rip in the side of the tent. And sewing and sewing, and sewing.
See the happy Wicked Dog, sleeping in the sun, dreaming of rocket-powered fox pursuits. His paws twitch. His nostrils quiver. This time, he is tied up.* Take that, Wicked Rocket Dog!
*With his nice safe shoulder harness, to an anchor he can in fact drag a fair distance when he really feels inspired.