My eight year old loves foxes. So on a trip at the start of summer, as we approached our Frontier Airlines gate, he was thrilled.
“My first time with a fox on the tail!”
But our gate had changed. We were flying on Mickey the Moose’s plane.
Later, as we suffered through a white-knuckle descent in windy skies over Washington, DC, he looked out the window. “It looks like the wings are going to brake off.” Pause. “Mom, if we crash, and I survive, you know what I’m going to say?”
“I knew we should have flown the fox’s plane.”