On a sunny day, two boys and I were jogging along a concrete path which traced through some hilly farms and stands of trees. One boy was about 10 years old while the other was about 8. As we reached the top of one of the hills, we encountered a red fox sleeping in the middle of the path. We gingerly stepped by the slumbering fox, worried that we would awaken it; but the fox continued its nap and we moved on.
Just as we had reached the crest of another hill, the younger boy gave me a shove which knocked me off the path and down the rather steep rocky slope of the hill. I didn't fall, but the going was rough, and by the time I had rejoined the two boys at the bottom of the hill, I was angry. I immediately confronted the six-year old, demanding to know where he lived. I pulled out a little pamphlet to write on; I was determined I was going to tell the boy's parents how the boy had pushed me off the path. The boy didn't seem particularly concerned; I had the feeling his parents probably wouldn't discipline him, even though he obviously needed it.
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