“I still don’t see the problem.”
“The problem, brother-dear,” Bree sighs, mildly exasperated. “Is that squirrels have rabies. They are rabid. Raa-bi-DA. You know, foaming at the mouth?”
She placed her fingers in her mouth to imitate fangs, which I was certain had little to do with rabies, squirrels or foam, but did paint a horrifying peek at her mind’s eye. I noted never to watch Watership Down with Bree . . . ever.
“Understanding the meaning of the disease, I still don’t see how that factors into the argument.”
“You don’t . . ? If an elf rides a squirrel like a horse, skittering and jumping willy-nilly from treetop to treetop. . . ” my sister explains, arching her hands as if trying to explain the flight-plan of the squirrel in the branches, “. . . then there is a good to fair chance that the rodent will infect them with the disease. Thus, your theory that fairies use the rodents as mounts is impossible.”
Murphey's Pub 