Fox O'Zoa

FOX O'ZOA

Incorrigibly shiftless, Fox spends more time plotting how to wriggle his way out of responsibility than on ever actually doing anything. Despite creeping into whatever is considered mid-30s for a hydra, he's convinced it's not time to grow up yet. He's got too many sinkholes and cattail patches in the pond to visit; too many relatives to catch up with; too many new flavors of copepod to try. Who's got time for work? Or housekeeping? Or babysitting a dozen hundred kids?

Luckily for Fox, finagling is an art, and he's a virtuoso. With used-car-salesman smarm, he strikes up tempting deals and barters with friends. "Watch the kids for me Tuesday? I'll pick yours up from school the day after." "Cover my shift, can you? I'll drive you to Baymud Flats next time." You scratch his back, and he'll leave you there digging at a spot between your shoulder blades that you can't reach. Reciprocity—among many other words—isn't in his vocabulary. 

Most people learn their lesson after two or three or ten times and don't shake hands over any of Fox's little "favor" proposals, leaving him with an ever-shrinking pool of victims. He has to turn to someone besides neighbors, friends, family and coworkers . . . how about dinner? 

Fox snatches the first water flea he finds and doesn't even have enough time to contemplate the most enticing way to present his offer. He sort of forgot grabbing a swimming potato chip in his electrified tentacles might warrant those "don't eat me, I'll do whatever you want" theatrics, but it couldn't have worked out better. 

"Watch my kids on Tuesday?"

Ah, the illusion of choice.