Once upon a time, there was a Marmot living in the alps. He was an old marmot, and his yellow belly fur had started to turn grey with age. Soon a fox would catch him, or an eagle, for that is the way witg marmota.
His little grandchildren (his marmlets) crowded around asking him to tell them a story.
So the aged marmot scratched his snout with a paw, turnong his thoughts inward while reviewing momenta from his long life on the stony mountain. The little marmlets shook their bushy tails, grandpa always had the best stories. He thought and thought.
Soon papa marmot, grandpa marmots son came over to see what was going on. The marmlets suddenly had a critical choice, should the crowd around papa marmot and give dad a hug or stick cloae to grandpa marmot and have front row seat gor the best story.
Grandpa had worked it down to two stories: Maybe the time he crossed the road? He had not known it was such, for marmots do not understand these things. To him it had been a vast flat hot hard plain, it had stuck to his paws and shook with rumbling fury before an enormous fox so big it blocked the sun and its breath was so loud it deafend him ran by in a blur. Grandpa had been in the middle of the road, the fox had almost stepped on him, but he had been quick and faked it out with a dodge at the last minute, dodging one way as it darted the other and it had run straight into a tree and made such a noise.
Then there was the story of the eagle, but he told the fox story.