So when we last saw our intrepid Mojo, she was blathering on about dinosaurs, which, quite frankly, is something six-year-olds do. And before that, she was blathering on again about her idyllic childhood, skipping about Laughing Brook and no doubt incessantly bothering the poor nice lady who sat in Burgess' house playing Old Mother West Wind. That, and pressing the button in the room with the snakes to make the rattlesnake tail rattle. Because that's the sort of charming lass Mojo was and is. My Favorite Older Sister volunteered there for at least one summer, maybe two, and in addition to bringing home various orphaned babies to care for--birds, mostly; we were once offered a litter of possums but we were going on vacation, much to my eternal, youthful chagrin--Laughing Brook was also the source of our pet chicken, Herman.

If you are curious how Mojo got a chicken from a wildlife sanctuary, um, well, this may upset some of my more delicate and sensitive readers, so I will break here to spare their feelings.

Okay. As usual, this requires a rather lengthy preamble.

For a while a few years ago, I had a resident fox who spent many a winter's day curled up in a patch of sun up in the woods of the back yard. Snoring away. I have I don't know how much footage of him, but let's face it--after the initial "Oh, look, it's a fox!" watching an animal sleep is about as exciting as watching a person sleep. Which is to say, not very.  MORE Mojo! »