"What is the pain that fosters my liking?" said the she-wolf to the boy on the bench. "I am unto this spot as all living things," replied the boy. "Satiated?" asked the foxy wolf. "Well," looking her in the eye atwixt her talons, "I'd say I know what I've got between my knees." "A crystal?" replied fox. "No, lady, it's a bull." "Was it that that hurt?" "Not really, but I got distracted and tumbled over a thing or two and here I sit with it. You see it's smarting from a bad fall we took together over on Geneva way." "Yes, I can see it's panting," she mused.
Boy got up leaving bull to the cobblestones. The beast reclined, not held up any longer, a faint guffaw issuing from his nostrils. His skin was black and very sleek, and in some places especially black where blood wet the hide. "I must go back," said the boy to the she-wolf, and without looking down at the bull headed on his way, out the nearest corner of the park.
Fox sat for a moment on the cobblestones where small maroon rivers, hot and sticky, flowed between the cracks. Fox was not sentimental, but she did like a good licking every now and then. She brushed her white bushy mane against the ailing side of bull. Her hairs glistened and stuck together with bull's blood. She would carry herself home to her younglings who, cleaning her off, would have their evening meal.
