I would teach them legends: that they had come from the stars, that they had subsequently watched the first red men and then the first white men enter these hills.
When they were able to take care of themselves, I would turn them loose. There would be volpla colonies all up and down the Coast before anyone suspected. One day, somebody would see a volpla. The newspapers would laugh.
Then someone authoritative would find a colony and observe them. He would conclude, "I am convinced that they have a language and speak it intelligently."
The government would issue denials. Reporters would "expose the truth" and ask, "Where have these aliens come from?" The government would reluctantly admit the facts. Linguists would observe at close quarters and learn the simple volpla language. Then would come the legends.
Volpla wisdom would become a cult—and of all forms of comedy, cults, I think, are the funniest.
"Darling, are you listening to me?" my wife asked with impatient patience.
"What? Sure. Certainly."
"You didn't hear a word. You just sit there and grin into space." She got up and poured me another martini. "Here, maybe this will sober you up."
I pointed. "That's probably Guy and Em."