Drop into my eaves, why don't you?

You may think, because of the handsome pelage that grows right into my ears, that I do not hear you wittering outside my cave. Hush, you say, the Dear Halibut is asleep. The weather has turned, the snow already lingers under Gooney's favourite bush, the Arctic Hare has put on his snowsuit. We won't be hearing from H for a long time, you say, perhaps with a snicker and some relief.

I am not a bear or a dormouse. (Would that you were the latter, and under my teeth.) My hearing is excellent. I have heard the long lines of squeaking pelicans, high up, heading southeast. I have heard the geese in their Vs, much louder and more vulgar, further down. I have even heard about the oily ducks, 'euthanized' by the wasteful and toxic humans. (How many precious dark-fleshed thighs have disappeared into your incinerators, cretins? What will you eat when you've starved and chased and poisoned all the other animals?)

So, watch out when you pass my grate. My claws are sharp.