The following entry is messily scribbled onto a page of her tattered journal.
What’s In A Name?
“Mouse”, they call him. He’s not a mouse! What, because he’s quiet? Bah! I suppose “quiet as a mouse” is a thing some folk say. But mice are jumpy, twitchy, nervous little things. He’s not. He’s steady and calm and inward.
And then there’s “Rabbit”. What in the world! Why? Is something chasing him? Maybe it’s because rabbits like to rut more than they like to eat. I’d call him a wolf. Big, powerful, bit broody, always chasing tails, but still alone inside.
“Fox” is the name for another. This one might be a little more fitting. He’s witty, resourceful, good-humored, at home in the wilds. Aye, I can agree on this name.
Of course, there’s also my “Jester”. Ah, but there’s so much more to him than his jokes! I’m all right with the world not knowing that, though. I like that I get to see the other side.
Should I add the “Viper” to this list? He’s not part of the group. Not yet, anyway. His name is most fitting of all. Or so it was when I first knew him. Cunning, slithery, sharp-fanged, venomous. But still so beautiful. Is he still a viper today?
And then there’s me. “Vixen”, they called me. I laughed at first, saying folk would think I was some sort of ravishing, lusty beauty. But “Fox” said nay, it was because foxes are clever and swift and can look after themselves in the wild. And of course, my red hair.
I guess I can’t argue with that.
