The English hunt foxes on horseback. Hounds pick up and track the scent of the fox across the countryside, and the riders urge their horses to follow, galloping across fields and leaping over hedges and walls, thoroughly enjoying the pursuit of the fox. When they catch it, I think they cut off its tail and give it to someone, but they don't actually do anything enjoyable with the fox. The whole aim of the exercise is the pursuit. Lately this has started to worry me. Not the fox hunting itself: I think they banned it in England. But you see, the fox is a burrowing mammal.
Sometimes wanting is superior to having. I've really had a grand time these last few years, suffering for my art, as it were. I have the art of pursuing chief pilots down to a science. I know the script. Now I'm a little frightened of my own impending success. Once I catch the fox, I hope it doesn't bite me.