20

The beaver awoke with a start. Something … something was gnawing at the edge of his mind, but he just … couldn’t … quite … focus on it. Something was different but the same.

The beaver didn’t much like change. At least he didn’t like change that he didn’t control. He’d always divided the world into two kinds of occupants: those who changed things and those who were changed. The beaver liked to think he was on top of that pile and that the world existed for him to observe, not to be affected by.

Of course the beaver didn’t really believe that, quite. He knew that the food chain, being what it was, always had higher predators on the ladder, no matter how high one  climbed. But he had always assumed that up in the rarified atmosphere in which he existed, he wouldn’t often encounter anyone or anything that would affect his comfortable station.

But it looked like something (or someone) just had. Not quite sure how he felt about that, the beaver stretched and ambled into the kitchen for a drink. About time for a nice long soak in some cold water,  he thought to himself. Do a fellow some good to chill some of the aggravation from my bones. A few too many loose ends seem to be floating to the top of this pond, and I need to settle back and survey the situation.

That resolved, the beaver headed to the bathroom to plan his next steps and get back to getting the dam built.