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Bill Zamboni put on his crisp, white tee-shirt, and painted his eyelids an electric violet-blue, as he got ready for bed that night. Underneath, he wore pink ladies' panties, white stockings and cute little white socks with matching electric violet-blue pom poms at the ends of each sock. Undoing the tucked-in covers, Mr. Zamboni followed by getting on his soccer-like muscled legs and said a prayer to his Great Spirit, of who he had no name, for he felt a name was watering down any great spiritual power up above in the heavens.

"Dear Great Spirit, thank you for a wonderful day. Thank you for the laughter and love of today. Thank you for your guidance and presence, and for your bread and water, and for another opportunity to live and breathe and be of great worth to the creations you have made. Thank you."

Then, Bill turned off the light of the lamp on the end table, and crawled under the covers, getting warm and comfortable. The open window on a late, cool June evening in Cape Cod let in all the soothing noises that gave being out in the open of nature so much happiness to the 5'2" vulpine male, bright red-furred and very bushy tailed. Bill's wide, oval eyes were a spectacular hazel, and the tufts of hair which appeared on the top of his head and spread down throughout towards his ears, which were small and pointy, and which fell like a waterfall down past the nape of his neck, glistened a neat silver-white. Longish bangs, which also frosted silver-white and hung down to his fluffy eyelashes, which were stunning and cute like butterfly wings taking off, gave Bill Zamboni the look of a gorgeous actor, although he was really just a local radio DJ at a small shack station near the old library off of the main road.

At forty-one years of age, Bill Zamboni had been through a short series of life-altering changes, not to mention the loss of his wife, Sara, two years earlier. Sara Zamboni George, a 4'9" silver timber wolf from Boise, Idaho, had suffered a strange and still misunderstood accident, which had ended with tears of blood flooding from the corners of her roundish, green eyes, and after she had gasped a final breath, a large white piece of dried flesh had leaped out of her convulsing mouth, which Bill still kept in a glass jar.

When Sara had been buried in a proper funeral, and the formalities of the closings of life had been completed, Bill Zamboni had then asked Dr. Fuston what had happened to his wife of ten years.

"To be quite frank, Mr. Zamboni, your wife's death is the most incredible case I have ever seen before. I am still mystified. I just can't put the pieces together."

When Bill pressed further, the sweating Golden Labrador doctor rubbed his hands together, and urged Mr. Zamboni to sit for a spell, to listen. Frustrated and consumed in tears, he obliged.

"Bill, the best thing at this time is to put this behind you."

"Put this behind me! That's all you can see . . I mean, say!" erupted the shaking and pale fox, his 145 pound frame a skeleton, his silvery hair zigzagged, and his usual sparkling fur now matted from not having had showered for a good while.

"I suggest going home, Mr. Zamboni. I suggest going home, and resting. Until I can come to some conclusion, what else is there to do?"

So, swallowing humble pie, Bill Zamboni, with great reluctance, went home. He had gone home from the hospital in Boston, and now, two years later, had managed to find a new life. At first, Bill thought that it would have been impossible to start over without Sara, his mate "forever", his stronghold, his greatest companion. She had even told him that she was the answer to everything, and that he had never to look past her for love, for trust and faith, for guidance, for anything.

Now, though, Bill had found the courage with his newfound identity, his pretty clothes, and the raging boner that dressing in this lusty way to re-discover the burning heart that had been lost through so many glorious years of wedded bliss.

Savoring through the cool night air at eleven-thirty, the supple and sexy fox pulled down his silky panties, and began to paw off at a furious pace, not having come in a while. Nearby, the radio stood idle. With his right hand, he pressed the ON/OFF and the speakers came alive with Country Joe & The Fish, "live" from Woodstock, doing "Rock & Soul Music" to a frenzied beat of beat, snare, beat, snare, beat, snare, beat, snare, beat, snare, et cetera.

"My favorite song!" cheered on Bill, as the natural night air conditioning, perfumed in its own glory of flowers and ocean scents, and other furs of the night laughing on the sidewalk of Monsoon Avenue, either drunk, high or sober. Soon, the athletic fox's nine inch cock began to swell great at the head and jerked violent back and forth, spurting hot come all over the bed sheets and on Bill, covering his illustrious silvered hair with silver love juice. A big splotch of white cream landed on his red-and-white muzzle and small black nose, and a little lay on his left eyelid, smearing the electric violet-blue eyeliner over the crown of his small, black-framed glasses.

"Whoop!" Bill Zamboni thrust forward out of his panting maw and with gentle care, took off his glasses and placed them on the radio, now shut off. With great eagerness, the love spellbound fox licked the remaining puddles of cum off of his fingers and scooped what was left off of his face onto his pink, lolling tongue. Why bother to wash? contemplated the well-aged vulpine as he did love to lie in his own musk at night, dreaming that maybe some handsome prince would scoop him up through the open window at night and carry him away, tantalized by the super scent.

However, before Bill went to sleep, a most curious and interesting thought slivered through his new conscious-developed mind, from which he could give thanks to the sometimes fresh, but no longer so painful, memory of his deceased wife, Sara, and his new Great Spirit friend: I am my own handsome prince, electric violet-blue and all.

And with that, Bill Zamboni slept sound, a soft, sleeping lump of love flesh and spirit that breathed happiness and glory in the closing minutes of the box of another day in the Earth of the Great Universe.