A few weeks later the striped snake was sunning himself on his favorite rock when he heard a rustling in the grass. He didn’t so much as twitch; only his yellowish-green eyes shifted. Several yards away a female field mouse was making her way along, sniffing at this and that. It wasn’t till she was just a couple of snake-lengths from the rock that she sensed danger and looked up.
The snake struck. Unluckily—for him, at least—he had to negotiate a clump of tall grass and just missed the mouse’s tail, losing the advantage of surprise. But he was hungry and dashed after her anyway. The mouse darted left, then right, then dove into a hole.
It was the bolt hole of a woodchuck’s burrow. The field mouse sprinted through the living room without so much as a “Pardon me,” but the snake stopped in confusion, letting the mouse escape out the front entrance. He could have sworn this was the burrow of his woodchuck acquaintance. But that was always neat as could be. The floor here was stained with rancid milk and berry juice, and the walls were all gooey, with splintered wood and broken nutshells stuck to them.
“Where am I?” he wondered aloud.
“Shhhh,” said a woodchuck, trudging out of the kitchen.
The woodchuck was so worn and exhausted it took the snake a moment to recognize him. “What’s going on around here?”
“Don’t wake her,” Fred said, pointing at the bedroom.