Biscuit was a golden retriever with a very waggy tail. Not just waggy. EXTREMELY waggy. Magnificently, dangerously, catastrophically waggy. It had knocked over seven plant pots, two cups of lemonade, and one small cousin called Ned. So today, Grandma had given Biscuit ONE very careful job. Carry the acorn pie to Grandma's door. In the basket. Without wagging.
Biscuit picked up the basket handle in her teeth. She lifted her chin. She set off across the garden in a slow, stiff, extremely dignified parade-march, each paw placed down like she was walking on ice. The pie smelled of brown sugar and warm pastry and every good thing in the world. She did not wag. She would NOT wag.
Sniff, sniff, sniff. Her nose twitched. The garden smelled of mud and rose petals and something else — something small and panicking just ahead on the path. It was a squirrel. A small grey squirrel named Fig. He was standing in the middle of the path with his paws pressed flat to the earth, patting the ground in frantic little circles. Pat-pat-pat. Pat-pat-pat. His tail flicked like a question mark. He looked extremely stressed. Biscuit stopped. She could not speak — her mouth was full of basket. But she had very expressive eyebrows. She raised the left one. Fig looked up. He pointed at the ground. He pointed at his empty paws. He pointed at the ground again. Biscuit understood immediately. He'd lost his acorn. The one he'd buried last autumn. The very important one.
Sniff, sniff, sniff. Biscuit's nose had already found it. Three seconds ago, actually. It had rolled under the garden gate and was sitting in a patch of damp moss just on the other side, smelling powerfully of earth and last year's October. Biscuit walked to the gate with great care. She crouched down — basket still perfectly level, chin still perfectly high — and reached her nose under the gap. Then, with the delicacy of someone defusing something extremely important, she scooped the acorn up with her paw and nudged it back under the gate with her nose. It rolled to Fig's feet.
Fig froze. He looked at the acorn. He looked at Biscuit. He clutched the acorn to his chest. Then, with enormous ceremony, he chose a new spot — three steps left, one step forward — and buried it again, patting the soil down with both paws in a very official way. Done. Biscuit gave him one slow, significant blink. Fig gave her a very small nod. And then Biscuit continued her parade-march, chin up, basket level, tail absolutely still.
Biscuit set the basket down. The pie was intact. Her job was complete. And then — she wagged. It knocked over only one flowerpot. A personal best. She curled up on the doorstep, tucked her nose under the empty basket, and let her eyes go slow and heavy. The garden went quiet. A crumb of pastry sat on the path. Somewhere nearby, a small grey squirrel patted his patch of earth one last time, and was satisfied.
