The Tangle nereo

An observer not intricately tied into the emotional investment that was a man nobly protecting his hard-won acorn might have realized, quite logistically, that Louis had his feathers in a ruffle over nothing. But Louis, too close to the crux of such a matter to see clearly, only saw his precious prize in peril.

His frenzied display seemed to grow more frenzied as Itsy looked up at him (or rather, down, given their current geographic arrangement), but as the grey bird went back to pecking whatever was in her claws, Louis' fevered dance stopped.

What on earth was more prized, more important, than an acorn?

He stilled his beating legs a moment and tilted his head to the side, that hungry black eye on the bird. What was it? What did it have? Was it an acorn?

Could Louis have it?

And then, with a fluttery pomposity to rival some fat dutch king, Louis alighted right next to Itsy, his claws held tight to the branch. He swayed a moment, cocked his head to the side so he could view the clutched insect better and tittered in a booming voice: "Wassat?"