X, good old X. Not much of a name, I'll grant you, but a very fine fellow nonetheless. X, as I'm sure you know, lives in the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. Neighborhood is something of a misnomer. It is actually a very small kingdom, ruled by a benevolent but absolute monarch, King Friday XIII. The tiny landlocked state has a low birth rate (only two live births have been recored in the last 40 years, one prince and one platypus), but otherwise seems to be a healthy and nurturing environment. The chief export of the area is rocking chairs. The country has no transnational disputes and is considered extremely stable, except for when Lady Elaine Fairchilde causes trouble with her Boomerang-Toomerang-Zoomerang.
X lives in a hollow space in an old oak tree. Unlike most owls, he has a door that covers the opening to his home. The cross beams on the back of the door form an “X,” which is visible when the door is open. It originally was a standard “Z” shaped set, but Handyman Negri, at the request of X, renovated it to be more distinctive.
Living in the same tree is X's neighbor and closest friend, Henrietta Pussycat. She occupies a small house that is secured to a stout branch very near his door. Henrietta has an unusual and somewhat debilitating speech pattern that over the years X has learned to understand. He sometimes acts as her translator. The owl and the pussycat are great friends, and although there have been rumors of a deeper relationship, nothing is known for sure.
X is, I believe, unique in his blue plumage. Most owls have feathers that help them blend into their surroundings, but X has never been one to blend in. He sits in his great tree, a very public owl, always glad to greet a neighbor. Here's to X. Moral exemplar, nifty-galifty owl.
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