Nature’s full of Mysteries.
Some of ‘em are important. Why does an innocent baby bunny have to suffer? Why does the milky-eyed fawn have to watch wolves eat his mother alive? What kinda sedative is Mark Trail on?
Some of ‘em aint so important. Why are gooseberries called gooseberries? They don’t have anything to do with geese. Mentioning gooseberries to any waterfowl down around the docks is a great way to get both that particular fact explained and your teeth rearranged, if you know what I mean. So maybe there is something to that name, after all. Or maybe a six-foot-five musclebound goose longshoreman just doesn’t like being reminded that he’s named after a fruit. Hell, what was I even talking about?
Maybe I shoulda quit this line of work a long time ago. Maybe I shoulda stayed in the den, just lived like everyone else. Had some pups, I dunno. But that ain’t me. I see a mystery, I gotta stick my nose into it. Important, not important… makes no difference.
I try to think I do some good. It’s all that makes it worth it getting up, sometimes. It helps you get through days when it’s just some old goat whining that her kids stole the cookies:
Or winding up in a bathroom confronting a giant, naked guy:
Or getting turned into an eggplant. Seriously. What the Crap:
I hate eggplants.
Someday I’m gonna get that case. The one I dream about. The one that makes my name. That gets me a plaque. Somewhere. Even if nobody ever looks at it but the blue-haired granny gerbil with the dustrag who has to clean it every week. Maybe it’ll be blowing the lid on PETA’s political machine. Maybe it’ll be breaking a Catnip trafficking ring. Maybe I’ll be the one to bust that guy that shot Bambi’s mom.
Or maybe I’ll settle for another round of petty larceny, fine feline dames, an absentminded sidekick, and the grim, sooty face of this city you call the animal kingdom.
My name is Slylock Fox. I’m a detective.