Mr. Scruff smells a predator

Mr. Scruff, the chipmunk, popped out of his hole. The sun had already disappeared behind the tallest of the trees, and the sky glowed lavender. Mr. Scruff had not eaten all day because yesterday he found a rotten cherry that some lousy kid dropped at the Picnic Site. He ate it alone in his hole, and he squeaked song after song, even the Christmas one.

"Al-VIN!" Mr. Scruff had yelled over and over, falling on his leaf-bed laughing.

And today he had a big, big ache in his tiny head, and he turned over and over in his leaf-bed, clutching at his face with his paws, crying and trying to squeeze out the throbbing. He slept away the afternoon.

Now there was scant time to find a meal before the night animals (a bunch of creeps) emerged, so he scurried out. Usually in this situation he would go to Lars Mouse's burrow to borrow some seeds, but Lars was still angry about the rotten-grape-induced ear-bite the other day. Fucking rotten grape. Fucking Lars. It was a love bite. All mice are homophobes.

Mr. Scruff spotted a snail between two blades of crab grass.

"Ugh," he thought. "This will have to do."

He grabbed the snail and bit off its head. He held his breath, pulled the slimy mess from its shell, and choked it down.

"Much better baked," he thought.

Musk filled the air. Mr. Scruff stood up on his hind legs and looked upwind.

A weasel skulked not ten feet away. It turned towards him. He ran.

Back in his hole, Mr. Scruff was sick with adrenaline. The snail had not stayed down, and he was not about to eat it twice. His stomach rumbled as he lay on his leaf-bed, counting the roots on the ceiling. So many roots, so many wasted days.

Up next: Mr. Scruff and the new mushroom