“Turn down the music, Charles. I can't even think.”
“Pardon the volume, sir.”
Farley’s limousine driver, a mild-mannered lop-ear, switched off the radio and nervously adjusted his hat. He was not accustomed to working for foxes, let alone the heir to the Rockefeller fortune. When his employer spoke, the rabbit's honey-colored fur bristled and he clutched the steering wheel just a bit tighter.
The passenger uncrossed his legs, slouching into the cool upholstery. He let his sport coat and shirt lay unbuttoned, exposing his white chest to the pleasant blast of air conditioning. 
Farley unfolded the newspaper clipping in his palm, which bore a classified ad: “Wealthy widow seeks sperm donor of exceptional health and breeding.” Above the text was a black-and-white headshot of the ad’s author, a vixen with huge, expressive eyes and a dark muzzle. The melted shape of a coffee ring obscured the photograph somewhat, but he could tell that her ears were strikingly rounded, with one tilted to the side at an alluring angle. 
“Beautiful,” he said under his breath.
At his family's behest, Farley had courted several vulpine socialites over the past year. There was Veronica, whose lustrous red fur turned heads at parties; there was Olivia, the delicate Fennec; and there was Whitney, the snow-colored heiress who had a penchant for chilled wine. Each lady was more impressive arm candy than the last, but when he was being perfectly honest with himself, Farley found all of them dreadfully boring. The courtships fizzled out as quickly as they ignited.
His mother and father derided this attachment to bachelorhood. “You won't be young forever,” he would hear them saying scornfully. Finally, things came to a head.
“Young man, we did not raise you to squander this family's wealth and noble lineage,” his father had scolded. “This-- this casual disregard for our family name ends now. You will find a lady and produce a noble, fox heir within the next five years, or we will write you out of our wills. That is final.”
Farley, who had no intention of settling down, was unfazed. Like all clever businessmen, he found a solution that satisfied stakeholders with minimal effort. That solution was now folded in the palm of his hand.
“All I have to do is impregnate a baby-crazy widow, and I can carry on with my life,” he thought to himself. “If I get a great lay out of it, even better.”
The limousine passed through an intricate, wrought-iron gate, ascending a hill. At the apex, his destination came into view: a nouveau riche mansion in the heart of California wine country. He felt the pink tip of his member begin to peek out in anticipation.
“We've arrived, sir.”
“Yes, I can see that, Charles.” 
“Very good.”
The fox procured a hand mirror from a nearby compartment, licked the pad of his palm, and slicked back the flyaways on top of his head. He gave his reflection a smoldering gaze, noting how the sunlight brought out his green eyes and rouge fur. Then he gave himself a sly wink, buttoned his shirt, and stepped out of the limo. 
“Good afternoon,” a gravelly voice intoned. “May I help you?”
The speaker was a tri-color basset hound in a smart, perfectly tailored suit. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, as though intent on mimicking the most exaggerated Hollywood caricature of a butler. A tad paunchy, the basset carried his weight with dignity.
“We spoke on the phone earlier,” said the fox. “I'm responding to Ms. Vulpira’s classified ad.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Farley Rockefeller. Right this way.” The butler lowered his voice, continuing, “Mistress is the preferred salutation. She will insist upon it.”
The mansion interior was, much like the basset butler, a cliche: it sported marble floor tiles, a staircase fit for an opera house, and an ornate, crystal chandelier. In fact, Farley had the strange feeling he had seen it before. 
“I see you are admiring the foyer,” said a sultry female voice from the loft. “You might recognize it from one of my late husband's films.”
Farley looked up to find the lady of the house surveying him from the second floor, her ample bosom pressed against the polished wood railing. A 1960s-style up-do added several inches to the vixen’s stature, and a few loose locks of ginger hair framed her vulpine face. He could see the chandelier candles glinting in her enormous, chocolate-colored irises. Words escaped him.
“I believe Mistress is speaking to you,” the butler whispered, nudging him gently. Farley began to stammer an introduction, but was cut off.
“I know, Mr. Rockefeller. Your reputation precedes you. I have business to attend to, but Jarvis will walk you through the application process, and we’ll decide by this evening if you're the right fit.”
She offered a wry smile before disappearing into a dark room, her gown rippling behind her.
Jarvis led Farley down a long hallway. Kitschy gothic portraits lined the walls, perhaps leftover props from a movie filmed in the mansion. The trellis wallpaper had a hypnotic effect, and the guest found himself lost in its intricate pattern by the time he trailed Jarvis into a rather plain, contemporary office. When they had seated themselves, the butler pulled out a stack of papers from inside his desk drawer. 
“The application process has three stages,” the basset began. “First, Mistress Vulpira requires applicants to fill out a detailed history of sexual activity. Second, a physical examination is to be conducted by me. Then, if we move forward with the application process, you will have an interview with the Mistress herself.”
“Examination?” The fox raised an eyebrow. “What does that entail?”
“Yes, I have been instructed to take measurements and note any physical irregularities or signs of venereal disease.”
“Jarvis, was it? Listen. I am in peak physical health, and can assure you that I have no STDs whatsoever. I'm betting that I can produce some documentation proving I have a clean bill of health and save you the trouble of having to ‘examine’ me.” He flashed a few crisp hundred-dollar bills. 
The butler was unmoved. 
“Mr. Rockefeller, while I do not relish this particular assignment, I'm afraid I will have to perform the examination as instructed. That is, unless you'd like to withdraw your application?”
Farley grudgingly agreed to the indignity, wondering how it would feel to press his muzzle into the widow’s huge, auburn breasts.