Congrats to Maggie Rascal

The sob story Foxy Redfluff had come to me with was implausible, but if money talked, hers was a deft raconteur capable of painting even the fishiest tale as gospel. It wasn’t Foxy I believed, but the den full of nuts, seeds and berries she brought to the table. I knew she had paid me more than if she’d been telling the truth about the “horrible theft of my prize acorn,” much more—enough more to make me go along with her yarn, no questions asked.

To learn what the red-haired vixen who’d hired me was really after, I’d have to play her game. So here I was, at the edge of the dam, with an eagle soaring overhead. I kept close to the tree line, ready to run for cover. It didn’t take long for the need to arise. In an instant, the bird swooped down, I dove out of the way, and Foxy sprang forward. She pinned the eagle down and pulled out a tail feather with her teeth before the raptor struggled free.

Foxy looked up to where I was safely ensconced in the crook of a tree.

“Oh, Bucky Bushtail, could you scamper down here and tie this feather behind my ear with your little squirrel hands?”

“Not a chance, sister.”

“I’m not bad,” she drawled. “I’m just drawn that way.”

“Wrong movie, sweetheart. Oh, and consider my services fully rendered,” I said, tossing down a golden acorn that hit her pretty red noggin.