One blustery day Mogey and Smush were hiking to a cabin they'd heard tell of up in Frooterby Notch. It had been a long, perspiry slog up the old sheeping trail, especially for two fellows as portly and fond of butters as Mogey and Smush, but finally they made it.
"Hooray! We've done it!" Mogey shouted, as the cabin came within view. "Look at this place! Way up here in the clouds...there's a fire pit, and a picnic table, and...is that?"
"Easy Mogey," Smush cautioned.
"It is! It's a mooselounger!" Mogey said eagerly. "I haven't seen one of those since my Grandpappy McRooney had one when I was but a young pup. I call first sit in it!"
Mogey dropped is rucksack and ran for the mooselounger with its comfortable antler-scoop seat and furry footrest. He vaulted over the woodpile and landed on the mooselounger with a loud woosh.
But it just so happened that this mooselounger wasn't a mooselounger so much as it was an actual moose, and as everyone knows, moose don't like to be landed on with a loud woosh. Not one bit. The moose got to his feet, bucked Mogey off, and smacked him right across the face with his hoof.
"Now you've gone and given me agita," the moose said, glowering, "and on a full stomach of meatlovers calzone, too. Shame on you." The moose kicked a bit more sand in Mogey's direction and stomped away in search of some chamomile.
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