The yearling beaver was hungry, but when he tried to filch a piece of tender green shoot from his baby siblings, his mother hissed sharply. He moved toward the lodge’s diving hole, but his father blocked the way and chittered at him. He slunk to one side of the den and began grooming his fur with his right hind foot. The divided nail on his second toe made a kind of comb that simplified this process considerably.
There were three new kits this spring, which kept his parents busy. His father moved to help with the feeding, and the yearling saw his chance. He slid into the diving hole and out into the pond.
The sky was bright overhead. The beaver dived, but not before the old trapper on the bank nudged the young girl beside him. “See, I tol’ you that ole lodge was still occupied!” he said gleefully.
Copyright © 2015 Loretta Miles Tollefson