A squirrel one day spied a beautiful bunch of ripe grapes, hanging from a vine trained along the highest branches of a tree. He thought, I should like to eat those grapes, for they would provide me with great nourishment. Just then, a snake slithered by.
“Please,” said the snake seductively. “I am hungry, and yet, because of my stature, I cannot reach the top of the tree.”
“Let me help you,” the squirrel replied, for he was a kind squirrel, and also it was sort of nice to be needed.
The squirrel scurried up the tree and fetched a fistful of grapes. He gave them to the snake, who gratefully ate the grapes in one gulp. The squirrel was so pleased to be of assistance that he forgot his own hunger entirely.
Years later, the snake would cite this as an example of how the squirrel had always been a pushover who never just said what he wanted, which, I guess—let’s sue the squirrel for trying to be a nice guy?
A sparrow toiled and toiled to build his first nest, adding a twig here, a piece of straw there. After many months of labor, he had constructed a suitable home and happily settled into it.
Soon a beautiful robin began to visit his nest. The first time she spent an evening there, she said, “Nice place,” and the sparrow’s tiny heart swelled with pride.
Some months later, after the beautiful robin had begun regularly spending nights with the sparrow at his nest, she requested a small corner of the nest in which to store her things.
The sparrow waited just a little too long to reply, which prompted the robin to inquire, “Can I ask what, exactly, are we doing here?” and, when he balked at that, too, the robin responded by gathering up her things and accusing the sparrow of being a sloppy, overgrown hatchling who slept in a pile of twigs and drank nectar straight from the flower.
“If my place is so disagreeable,” the sparrow cried, “then why would you want to keep your belongings here in the first place?” But, alas, it was too late—the robin had already flown away.
The sparrow knew one thing for certain—she was definitely going to tweet about this.
A wolf hunted all day, and, after his efforts, he at last returned with a king’s feast—a deer, several rabbits, and a pheasant.
He asked his companion, the fox, if she would like a plate prepared for her, but she graciously declined. “I am so full,” she said.
Yet, throughout the evening, each time the fox passed by, she would take a small bite from the wolf’s plate.
“Are you sure you don’t just want your own plate?” asked the wolf. “It’s really no trouble.”
“No, no,” the fox declined, reaching for another bite of pheasant. “I couldn’t possibly. I’m stuffed.”
In this way, the fox ate and ate, bite by bite, until she had consumed two rabbits, most of the pheasant, and all of the good parts of the deer. Meanwhile, the wolf, who was left with scraps, went hungry.
An Iberian ribbed newt and a salamander sat together on a dusty road, enjoying the glow of the midday sun. A small green snake emerged from the nearby grass, looking quite content. As he slithered past, he gave a nod of his head. “Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?” he asked cheerily.
In response, the Iberian ribbed newt arched his back and tucked his head into his chest—sharp, spiny ribs coated in poison burst through his skin. He thrashed his newly armored body about, the horrifying spines glittering. The snake gasped and nearly tied himself in knots trying to speedily slither away. The newt grinned, retracting his poisonous spines into his skin.
Several long moments of silence passed.
“Jesus, Phil,” the salamander finally uttered.
That evening, the salamander ended things. And from then on, the ribbed newt angrily warned anyone interested—and mostly those who were not—that they should learn a valuable lesson from him and stay far, far away from the salamander.
“She,” he would state, a little too loudly, “is totally crazy.”
A pig and a field mouse were enjoying a bright summer’s afternoon, strolling through the park.
“Look,” said the pig, gesturing toward a majestic eagle in the distance. “What a beautiful eagle!”
“Yes,” the field mouse concurred. “What a beautiful eagle, indeed.”
They continued on their way in agreeable silence.
You see, the field mouse had agreed with the pig because what the pig had said was true—she was an objectively beautiful eagle—and the field mouse, because she was an adult, understood that this didn’t mean that the pig was, like, into to the eagle and so didn’t make a whole goddam thing of it.
In the dying light of dusk, two mayflies sat together on a leaf, looking quite unhappy indeed.
“It’s just—” one mayfly began.
“It’s fine,” said the other.
“I just never thought of myself as—you know?” the first mayfly attempted.
“I said,” the second mayfly said, curtly, “that it’s fine.”
There they remained, perched together on the leaf in uncomfortable silence for several moments more.
“But I must remind you that I’m not exactly getting any younger,” the second mayfly finally continued. “I’m already sixteen hours old. I expect I have another seven hours left to live—eight, if I’m lucky. This was made known to you when first we met.”
She paused, sighing, remembering those sparkling early moments, so long ago. But she had been a mere twelve hours old then, and quite naïve. The first mayfly rubbed his hands together, as he was wont to do when feeling anxious.
“You know, it’s fine. It’s fine!” the second mayfly said briskly. “You were very clear from the beginning, and I should have—”
Her speech was interrupted when the other mayfly suddenly clasped her thorax tightly with his front legs. She gasped.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, squeezing tightly once more and releasing her. Then, with three swift flaps of his wings, he was gone, as quickly as he had arrived.
He got another mayfly pregnant, like, an hour later.
Evening fell soft upon the savannah, and the giraffe slept soundly, curled up on the ground. Here, as the giraffe slumbered, the gazelle was finally able to study him, and many truths became apparent to her at once. She chastised herself: How could she not have realized these things before?
Still gazing upon the giraffe, she laid a hoof on his back—gently, so as not to disturb him—and murmured, “Goodbye.” Then she galloped off into the night and was gone.
He had never been hot and interesting, at all, she had realized. It was just that he was really tall.
