The Mouse and the Elephant
One day as Miles Mouse was walking home from his job at the lab, he suffered shortness of breath and severe chest pains. I thought the lab guys were injecting my brain with caffeine to grow cancerous tumors; this feels like a heart attack, he thought just before he lost consciousness and keeled over.
Quite by coincidence, Quincy Elephant was out for his evening constitutional when he happened to see Miles succumb. Quincy, who had no formal medical training but who had attended a CPR class at the local Y, dashed over to help the stricken rodent. Unfortunately, when Quincy tried to expel air from Miles by pressing down on his chest with his front feet, he flattened the little omnivore to the thickness of a tortilla chip. Worse, operating on a full charge of adrenaline, Quincy didn't immediately notice his faux pas. So, continuing, he pinched off Miles's nose, put his trunk over Miles's mouth and blew an elephantine blast of air into Miles's lungs. Miles exploded.
Dr. Sheldon Hyena, the district coroner, testified in court that it if it weren't for the pachyderm's actions, Miles probably would have survived what was, the autopsy revealed, only an angina attack. Citing Section 346.9 of the penal code of the jungle, the presiding judge ordered Dr. Hyena and his staff to eat Quincy.
Moral: Those classes at the Y are a waste of time.
Mr. Crow and Ms. Coyote
Mr. Crow was dining on a lifeless, luckless rattlesnake in the middle of the northbound lane of Route 43. As he stripped a stringy piece of flesh from an exposed rib, his old nemesis, Ms. Coyote, appeared on the narrow gravel berm.
"Let me guess," she smirked, "It tastes like chicken."
"Given my species' underdeveloped sense of taste," Mr. Crow replied, "I couldn't say."
Moral: Irony is lost on a crow.
The Spider and the Fly
"This web, in this neighborhood, I think you can get 475, maybe 495," the fly told the spider.
"Really?," the spider asked. "That much?"
"The market's very active right now. More buyers than sellers."
"Hmmm," the spider mused. Then, "It's just that, well, I'm not sure I want to move."
"I know this is a tough decision, and I'm not trying to make it for you, but can you afford not to sell? The kids are grown and gone. You've eaten your husband. You've got a lot more web here than you need."
"I know, but this is my home. I love my neighbors, my garden. I'm comfortable here."
"Tell you what: Why don't you come with me out to Silk Trace, the new condo web community north of town? Just to look. No obligation. Just look," the fly said. "A lot of arachnids in exactly your situation have moved out there. Maybe you could talk to some of them, see how they like it."
"Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to look," the spider conceded. "OK."
"Great. Why don't I drive?," the fly buzzed.
Moral: It's a fine line between victim and vermin. ©