Allow me to introduce you to someone we met on our travels through Yellowstone. When we arrived at Grant Village campgrounds, we were delighted to learn that the reward for booking six months in advance was a site situated right next to the lake. We decided to celebrate the next morning by cooking bacon & eggs on our propane stove instead of porridge.
Just as we sat down in our portable chairs to enjoy our repast, a barrage of cones rained down from the adjacent lodgepole pines, one of which was a direct hit on the yolk of a perfectly done sunny-side-up egg. This was followed by lengthy commentary from the adorable little death-dealer himself, which I presume ranged over such topics as our presumption at illegally placing our tent within his grounds, our low parentage and our displeasingly immodest display of furlessness.
We formulated a plan for vengeance, as his barrage followed us wherever we tried to shelter near the picnic table. We collected all of the cones and heaped them in a pile and stood over them. Undaunted, he descended at his leisure and began collecting and storing them, not at all threatened by our bulky presences. Indeed, he won us over in a shockingly short space of time. Between snacks on smaller cones and stashing the larger, he chittered with gleeful abandon over his victory.