At Odds

Spouse and I were at odds regarding a favourite movie of ours; despite having watched and quoted it repeatedly, we were embroiled in an argument regarding a particular piece of dialogue, if it might be called such, and whether it was a figment of one of our imaginations.
The movie: The Muppet Christmas Carol. The scene over which we debated: a host of furry characters mill around a village square commenting, through the medium of song, on Ebenezer Scrooge and the chance of his being a decent human being underneath all the frosted hostility.
A momentary hush follows the moral query. Then, as far as my memory served, they next stare blankly- in perfect Muppet tradition- at one another, shake their heads, and ultimately chorus an elongated, definitive, rousing, "nah!"
I recalled it that way. Spouse, on the other hand, was possessed of an opposing thought. He accepted, generously, that each fellow bobbed his puppet head in agreement; but Spouse was positive that only one small voice squeaked a double-barrelled, "neh-eh."
I declared my certainty and Spouse stated his. Thoroughly indignant and fired up, I hurried to start the movie so that we could settle the score and get back to quoting the movie with authenticity.
On went the movie. We waited- I with tapping feet and folded arms and terse jaw set firmly in that unyielding fashion of the determined.
Along came the scene in the village square, and there was the song, and I grinned when the crowd, as I knew they must, cried, "nah!"
Before I had any chance to verbalise my glee, there came, as the symphony of affirmation began to fade out, a very small voice from the back of the gathering.
It squeaked.
It said, "neh-eh."
Spouse was vindicated; so was I. Absurdly, I had never heard the fragment he spoke of, and Spouse had never heard the line I knew.
In the end, we were both right. We heard what we chose to hear, we kept the bits we liked, and we scattered the remainder to the four winds.