Free Webster by Ellen Emerson White

And we tend to hunker down in bad weather.”
    A much smaller raccoon peeked out. “Help! A dog! Don’t try to eat us!”
    â€œDon’t worry, wee one,” the older raccoon said. “I’m just going to give him directions to a pile of logs where he can find some shelter. Go back and lie down.”
    The young raccoon shrugged. “Okay. Bye, scary dog!”
    â€œGood night,” the Bad Hat said. “Sleep well.” He shivered a little. “Stay dry!”
    The older raccoon gave him a long look, and the Bad Hat tried to look as wet and pathetic and nonthreatening as possible.
    â€œJust for the night?” the dog said, making his voice sound much higher and weaker than normal.
    The raccoon sighed. “Okay,” he said, and used a long-clawed front paw to draw a distinct line in the dirt. “You can stay until morning, as long as you don’t come inside any further than this. And if you snore, all bets are off.”
    Fair enough. “Thank you,” the Bad Hat said. “I’m much obliged.”
    It was a tight squeeze, but the dog managed to curl up in the dirt, protected from the rain and wind. Freedom was very tiring. So, he had no trouble dozing off, even though the raccoons were sleeping with what sounded like a concert of wheezy, little snorts. In fact, he went into such a heavy sleep, that he didn’t have any dreams at all, even the normal ones where he was running, and his legs would thrash around.
    When he woke up in the morning, the first thing he saw was a pair of yellow beady eyes a couple of inches from his face.
    â€œYikes!” the Bad Hat yelped. He jumped away from the eyes, bumping his head on the top of the musty den.
    â€œGood morning,” a tiny raccoon said. “I wanted to look at you up close.”
    That was for sure. It would be hard to get closer than the little animal had been to his face, without actually climbing on him. The dog quickly went outside the den and stood in the clearing. It was nice to be out in the fresh air again! And even though the ground was muddy and some branches had fallen down, it looked like it was going to be a bright, sunny day.
    â€œI never saw an actual dog before,” the baby raccoon explained, following right behind him. “Just pictures in a book we found in the trash once, and my grandpoppy sometimes tells scary stories about you, and what you’re all like.”
    Okay, he now felt compelled to defend his entire species. “Most of us are really very friendly,” the Bad Hat said. “No matter what you’ve heard.”
    â€œI don’t know.” The baby raccoon moved even closer than he had been before, staring with those huge yellow unblinking eyes. “You have funny short fur, and that would make it hard to trust you.”
    â€œLeave him alone,” an adult raccoon—almost certainly the baby’s mother—said crossly. “You are being very rude, Morton.”
    â€œBut, look at his fur!” the little raccoon said, and tapped the Bad Hat’s muzzle with his paw. “He feels like an otter! Only, he is way too tall.”
    â€œI’m a Retriever,” the Bad Hat said. Supposedly, anyway.
    â€œCan you swim?” the little raccoon asked. “All fast and sleek like otters do?”
    He had never seen an otter in real life, so it was hard to be sure. “Of course,” the Bad Hat said. “Retrievers are all about swimming.”
    â€œThat’s awesome,” the little raccoon said happily, and then pointed at the rabies tag on his collar. “I like that—it’s so shiny! Would you give it to me?”
    Why not? “Sure,” the Bad Hat said. “But, it’s metal, and I don’t know how to take it off.”
    â€œI bet I can do it,” the little raccoon said proudly. “I have opposable thumbs.”
    Okay, whatever. “Knock yourself out,” the Bad Hat said. “If you