6

6

That morning, as the sun moved slowly across the hardwood floor, the beaver snuggled into his beloved lemon and dreamed the dreams of the virtuous.

Gareth mused to himself, ”I have always loved the light in this apartment.” Barefoot he walked across the floor and stood watching the golden ray of light that illuminated the dust particles floating in the air. They danced. There really was no other word to describe the intricate swooping and swirling.

“It really is one of those little everyday miracles, isn’t it,” he murmured to himself.

“Well, time to get this day started,” he declared to the empty apartment.

Gareth wandered toward the kitchen with a side glance at the stubby little Meyers Lemon in the corner.

“A pity,” he thought, “that plant never has bloomed. Must not be enough light in here. Sure would be nice to see a lemon or two, though.” Upon receiving the lemon, Gareth had looked it up. Supposedly it would produce a few lemons each year with very little maintenance, but he had long ago decided he was cursed with a black thumb.

Looking back at the living room from the kitchen counter, he pondered the ball of fur and whiskers folded around the lemon’s pot. “I still don’t get that beaver,” he thought. “I wonder what his name is…”

Gareth grabbed a few eggs, some green onions and the tub of margarine and proceeded to scramble up some breakfast, for the thousandth time putting the enigma of the beaver out of his mind. Time enough for that later. There’s always time enough.