We need our tea kettle boiling over proper, tied to an enchilada and soaked in a a spritz of urine from a fox in the Andes mountains, though not the typical Andean fox. The typical Andean fox would wander and holler and look at the land with big eyes and think “I own this place,” whereas we need ourselves a fox with the kind of begrudging acceptance of his own fate as a pawn in God’s scheme, to be toyed with at any time, any place, for the jollification of his savior.