These are serious accusations, Miss Fluffybiscuits. 

Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps he [i]did[/i] walk into the obvious trap on purpose. There are many lines of inquiry a legal mind of your standing could pursue. A heart that believes he belongs in a net is a fascinating theory, with no small amount of evidence to back it up. But that would require asking a distraught evil space sheep to explain why he is so horrible, and that’s just not a good look. Rookie mistake. 

The far more cunning angle is that the existence of a trap meant he was still the target of your entirely justified revenge, and he thought to maintain some control over the situation by getting it over with and falling into your clutches in the easiest way possible. Just the sort of thing an evil space sheep would think to do. Except, evil space sheep aren’t known for giving away their thoughts that easily. You haven’t heard a single one of them spill the beans, which is very rude, because you’ve definitely been peckish here and there and those beans might be good snacking. What were we saying? Dunno, it must’ve been something tricky and complicated, and while you [i]could[/i] easily unravel any trick any day of any week, you did a lot of walking today and you’re just not feeling it. (But you could! (But you don’t wanna (So there!)))

Now, play your cards right, and you might be able to sell the defense on a plea deal: He did fall into the trap on purpose, because he was so smitten with the fine craftsmanship of the real trap that he didn’t have the heart to ruin it. 

Anyway, you’ve got the culprit in the back of a Wicked Fox Taxi, where he is flopped over with the kind of placid acceptance that is so like a sheep, evil or space or not. Things are happening. The world is exerting its will upon him. He’s being carried off somewhere, but things will probably sort themselves out. No need to bleat about it. Far better to lie here on the old, dented back of a Fox Taxi, and study the way the paint peels. And consider the odd question from a dangerously beautiful and fluffy foxgirl.

“Hrmm,” he hrmms. There must be a lot of thinking happening in that fluffy head of his. Or his head’s so full of fluff that the thoughts take a real real real real real long time to get anywhere. Whatever way the sheepy bumbles, he’s got no thoughts left for wiggling, or struggling, or doing anything other than sitting in a big lump as the surprisingly weighty, surprisingly soft ropes of your net nestle into his wool. Imagine the cost of that shake of his head. 

“I do not know if I have even had cooked m’n.”

He does not tell you if that’s a joke. Which is yet another mark on his permanent record.