On Sunday, while immersed in a discussion as to the necessity of wearing a full rubber suit in the cactus garden if we were going to dress as Martians and trip on mushrooms, I noticed two squirrels fighting rigorously.
Afraid the smaller's poor tufted head was going to be veritably torn off in the raucous fray, I approached, only to turn my head modestly aside upon realizing they were making love.
Fighting is so akin to fucking, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.
There really is a thin line between love and hate.
PS I was at the Huntington Garden's cactus section (the largest of its kind in North America, and filled with creatures that resemble pincushion practical jokes and the Little Shop of Horrors - SHOUT OUT! - a play my fantastic friend Ruth did red lip-sticked, high-school hips-swaying backup singer utter justice to as a petulant youth).