Dear Wigleaf, I'm in the living room with the moose. He's got his horns into me, so I'm stuck on the couch while he makes these ungodly noises. What am I to make of this? "I'm from Vermont," he says, "I need the woods." "We're on vacation," I answer. "Can't we just enjoy the moment?" He looks down at me with his large dark eyes. Then he kisses me. His lips cover up half my face. "If you want to make love," I say, "you have to get off me, so I can breathe." He rises up, and his head hits the light fixture, knocking it across the room. I order him to lie down, and he does, right there on the pine-plank floor. "Take a few deep breaths," I say. His inhalation almost sucks me down his throat. "Not very seductive," I say. He lets out a few moose calls. Then, we're bouncing around on the floor, and out of nowhere, a herd of moose smush their faces against the windows.