Written by Jonathan Forrest
Dover hopped about in a field of clover. He hopped over logs. He hopped over frogs (across streams), and to the edge of a grove. Dover twitched his long, gray ears that stood high above the brush. He straightened his waistcoat with shiny, gold buttons, and then smiled while twirling his whiskers.
“What a peculiar rabbit you are,” said a calm voice that ended with a squeak.
Dover followed the voice to a branch of a birch tree he was standing under. The voice seemed to belong to the squirrel sitting on that branch. The squirrel snapped his suspenders as a greeting.
“You’re one to talk,” Dover scoffed.
“My name is Shea. What’s yours?”
“Hippity Dover, Esquire,” The Rabbit answered with a bow. Shea the Squirrel
smiled wide, and with his eyes.
“You must be one of those important types.”
“Indeed I am, good sir!” Dover exclaimed. Shea lept from the branch and grabbed Dover’s paw and shook it excitedly. Dover quickly pulled away.
“Yes, well…good to meet you, chap. I must be going now,” He said, trying to
avoid eye contact.
“Many meetings, I suspect. Let me guess: the old codger turtle, down by the pond, is trying to sell his home, and you want to buy it?” Shea questioned as he stroked the scuff of his chin. Well, Dover was quite flabbergasted at the outlandish guess. Why in the world…hold on! Dover thought for a moment. His thoughts resulted in a mischievous grin.
“Old codger turtle, eh? You aren’t speaking of the good doctor, Bartholomew J.
Snapper?” Dover asked. Shea laughed.
“Yes, that’s the one!”
“I had no clue he was selling his home. However, now that I know that he is, I’m quite intrigued to find out his price,” Dover replied. Shea twitched his tail twice and hopped slightly off the ground. He gave a gleeful shout, “ Yipee!” Dover rolled his eyes and went along the path he planned to embark on anyway. This time however, he caught a tag-a-long squirrel in his wake.
Now these two, let’s say…companions…hold on! Should I call them companions
or friends? I know that Shea would prefer that I call them friends, but Dover (at this moment in time) would not accept or reciprocate such a designation between him and the squirrel, that frankly, he was quite annoyed with. I suppose companions shall do. Where was I? Ah, yes!
The two companions journeyed through Oakey Oaks Forest. Dover hopped
through fields, across streams (that ran down to the marshes), and up and around tangled knots of
roots and fallen trees. Shea traversed the trees above, keeping his eye on Dover. On occasion, Dover looked up, hoping the squirrel fell behind. On the contrary, Shea led half of the time. He
was very fast. As the two companions raced to the turtle’s pond, they spotted the wall of cattails. Shea saw over Dr. Snapper’s natural fence. He was surprised by the crowd of beavers surrounding the good doctor’s home.
“Confound you entitled, enlarged, flat-tailed woodchucks! Get off my property! I say, you saw-mill scoundrels, I will not allow you to dam my home!” Dr. Bartholomew J. Snapper raised his cane at the group, with vigor. For an old fellow, Snapper projected his voice
like a lion’s roar. Only those with the keenest sense of hearing could detect the slight wheeze of his age. Beavers did not have the ears that Dover possessed. He was the only one that could hear the strain. The rabbit burst through the cattails.
“Doctor, oh good doctor! How are you?” he said. Dover’s abrupt entrance gave
everyone a start. Poor old Snapper fell back onto his porch swing, clutching his chest.
“What’s this all about, Snapper? What is this rancorous rabbit doing here?” The beavers’ leader, Harvey, cried. Dr. Snapper took a deep breath and then snapped, “Get out, the lot of you!”
“Yeah, you heard him. Beat it!” Dover had his thumb, jetting from his raised fist, pointing behind, over his shoulder.
From the cedar branch, Shea was perched, laughing hysterically at Dover’s antics. Harvey and the other beavers encircled Dover. What a predicament, one would think, if they were in Dover’s non-existent shoes. However, the ‘rancorous rabbit’ was not concerned at all. In fact, he had a grin. Well, that steamed Harvey’s pot. When the beavers all lunged toward Dover,
he sprang up over them. Mid-backflip, Dover snatched Harvey’s black bowler hat, and put it on his own head as he stuck the landing.
“Sensational!” Shea exclaimed from the cedar branch. Dover peered over at Dr.
Snapper. The old codger sat on his porch swing, watching intently at the scene that unfurled in his front yard. Dover gave him a tip of the hat.
“Pay attention, long ears!” balked the good doctor. Dover spun around and saw the business-end of Harvey’s cane–then came stars.
***
Dover’s eyes fluttered open, and then he squinted at the beams of sunlight shining
through the window. Instinctively, he gingerly tapped his head.
“Ow!” Dover cried.
“Don’t touch! You’ve been given quite the noggin floggin’,” Dr. Snapper said. Dover noticed the soft cloth wrapped around his head.
“What happened?” He asked.
“Ask the bush tail,” Dr. Snapper replied. Dover saw Shea sitting beside him. The squirrel met his gaze with smiling eyes. Dover twitched his pink nose.
“Well, what happened?”
“The beavers smacked you upside the head, and then I came down, jumped onto one of their backs, and used their head as a drum. The one they called Harvey, who hit you first, had a chunk of his tail taken out by Dr. Snapper. Well, those bewildered beavers took flight, and the battle was won,” Shea explained. The squirrel handed a black bowler hat, from behind his tail, to
Dover.
“Harvey didn’t want this anymore,” Shea said. Dover could understand why. The hat had quite a large dent. He shrugged, and then buffed the dent out. Dover placed the hat upon his head and smiled.
“Thank you, Shea.” The squirrel was excited to hear that, for sure.
Dr. Snapper groaned as he stretched. Then he pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket, sniffed it, snapped the end with his mouth, and spit out its butt. Dr. Snapper struck a match on his shell and lit the cigar. After a couple of puffs, he walked out the front door. Dover and Shea gave each other a glance, stood up, and followed Dr. Snapper. As they stepped out onto the porch, they saw Dr. Snapper sitting on his porch swing, smoking his cigar. Dover sat in a wicker chair beside the good doctor. Shea sat in another wicker chair across from Dover.
“So, are you selling this place, and for how much?” Dover asked forthright.
“I’m not. Harvey and his ilk wanted me to. I told them off, they didn’t listen, and then you came along,” Dr. Snapper answered.
“Oh,” Dover replied. The disappointment in his voice almost choked him.
“Well…regardless, I must say, that was jolly good fun!” Shea exclaimed as he put his feet on top of the coffee table. Dover gave out a chuckle and did the same. He tipped his new hat over his eyes, folded his paws on his chest, and relaxed.
Writer in the Woods 