In the dead of summer, a fly was resting on a leaf beside a lake. It was a hot, dry fly who said to no one in particular: “Gosh, if I go down three inches, I will feel the mist from the water and I will be refreshed.”
There was a fish in the water, thinking, “Gosh, if that fly goes down three inches, I can eat him.”
There was a bear on the shore, thinking, “Gosh, if that fly goes down three inches, that fish will jump for the fly and I will eat him.”
It also happened that a hunter was farther up the bank of the lake preparing to eat a cheese sandwich. “Gosh,” he thought, “if that fly goes down three inches, and that fish leaps for it, that bear will expose himself and grab for the fish, at which point I’ll shoot the bear and then have a proper trophy.”
You think this is enough activity for one bank of one lake? There is more.
A wee mouse down by the hunter’s foot was thinking, “Gosh, if that fly goes down three inches and that fish jumps for that fly, and that bear grabs for that fish, the dumb hunter will shoot the bear and drop his cheese sandwich.”
A cat lurking in the bushes took in this scene and thought, as was fashionable to do on the bank of this particular lake around lunch time, “Gosh, if that fly goes down three inches and that fish jumps for that fly and that bear grabs for that fish and that hunter shoots that bear, and the mouse makes off with the cheese sandwich then I can have mouse for lunch.”
The poor fly is finally so hot and so dry that he heads down for the cooling mist of the water.
The fish swallows the fly.
The bear grabs the fish.
The hunter shoots the bear.
The mouse grabs the cheese sandwich.
The cat jumps for the mouse.
The mouse ducks, and
The cat falls into the water and drowns.
The moral of this story is:
Whenever a fly goes down three inches, some pussy is probably in danger.