I saw a moose cross country skiing today. How he got in my pyjamas I have NO idea. Actually, it was a she. She straddled the trail. She ate some sticks. Then some other sticks, on the other side of the trail. Then she peed on the trail, like in that movie that one time. Wow, thinks I, this is getting boring. "Please get out of my way" I ask, to no avail. This being Canada, I repeat myself in French. Flicker of the ears this time. "Movez-vous" I says again. She stays where she's at, but now she's starting to get mean, and angry. I decide to dispense with the politesse altogether.
French is a pretty good language for antagonism, and despite my limited vo-cab I was able to give her my two cents about track etiquette, and would she please stick to the woods besides? Not at all, she looks to think, and with that she rounds on me and makes a full tilt rebuttal. Lucky for yours truly, mooses can't ski worth a damn. No kick, no glide, no refunds. Poles every which way, and on her own yellow snow. Graceful as a bottle of gin she hits the piste, steam fairly shooting from the earholes. She's fumbling at the binders to try and make a run at me but I'm off and past her, laughing a laugh, on my own way. Reminded me of a pet moose I had when I was a child. Wouldn't fucking listen, never came home.