I remembered a story of the great Fred Allen. His character was a Maine man telling of a moose hunt. “I sat on a log and blew my moose call and waited. Then suddenly I felt something like a warm bath mat on my neck and head. Well sir, it was a moosess licking me and there was a light of passion in her eyes.” “Did you shoot her?” he was asked. “No, sir. I went away from there fast, but I have often thought that somewhere in Maine there’s a moose with a broken heart.”
