"You'd think if the whole family of moose can handle themselves, we wouldn't need to worry." As she sags, Owen moves up, one hand hovering as the pots slide into place. If they leave them, they might just wind up back on the ground--

And if they put them all up in cabinets, they might just fall further onto it. No point being particular about pots and pans, even if they're easier to manage than weird fauna.

"She's gotten out before," even with the pen mostly intact. It isn't exactly intelligence that lights those brown eyes--from what he's heard, she usually just leans on the gate until it gives. Owen's voice drops to weary baritone, like a man reporting the reason for retreat on a front line: "I hear she's fond of pumpkins."