Rooney and the Very New Baby

Rooney had three bedtime things: Papa’s lap, Papa’s low moon-song, and the quiet between the last note and sleep. He had not known they were treasures until someone else had them.

Now the baby, Tuppence, slept in the middle of Papa’s lap, wearing the moon-song like a blanket. Even the quiet seemed tucked around her. Rooney’s tail dragged. His ears tipped back. “That used to be mine.”

So Rooney tried being smaller. He folded his paws, tucked his tail around his nose, and squeezed beside Papa’s ankle. Papa peered down. “Well,” he said, “that is the smallest enormous raccoon I have ever seen.” Rooney made a squeak no bigger than a crumb, but the lap stayed full. “That used to be mine.” Smaller had not worked, so Rooney tried the opposite.

Rooney stood on a stump and sang the moon-song as loudly as his whiskers allowed. “MOOOOON above and STAAAARS so bright!” The baby woke with a squeak. Papa bounced her gently. “That song arrived with its boots on,” he said. Rooney’s voice shrank. “That used to be mine.” His ears lay flatter, so he tried disappearing.

Rooney hid behind the woodpile, where three logs made a dark, knobbly cave. He waited to be noticed. And waited. “Rooney?” Papa called at last. “Bedtime is here when you are.” The baby squeaked, and Papa shushed her softly. Rooney hugged his knees. “That used to be mine.” Then something cool rolled against his paw.

It was a berry, round and purple. Rooney picked it up. The baby had the lap, the song, and the quiet, but she had never washed a berry. She did not know dip from drip. The tip of Rooney’s tail lifted, and he crawled out.

“Papa,” Rooney said, “bring the baby. I have to show her something.” Papa raised his eyebrows. “Is it loud?” “No.” “Is it small?” “Berry-sized.” Rooney led them down to the stream, where the water whispered over the stones.

Rooney crouched at the edge. He held the berry between both front paws. “Dip.” He lowered it into the water. “Turn, turn.” He rolled it gently between his paws. “Shake.” He lifted it out and flicked off the drops. The baby blinked. “Again,” Rooney said. “Dip. Turn, turn. Shake.” And this time, her tiny paws moved too.

She dipped them through the air. She turned her fists. Then she gave such a wobbly shake that her whole middle jiggled. Rooney’s ears popped up. “She did it!” Papa grinned. “Almost. Your shake has several years of practice in it.” Rooney showed her once more, very slowly.

Papa sat on a wide, flat stone and scooted over. “There’s room here, berry teacher.” Rooney looked at the baby. Her paws were still turning. He climbed onto Papa’s lap and tucked his tail beside her feet. “That’s ours.”

Papa began the moon-song. Rooney sang the last line softly, leaving space for one small squeak. Then the quiet settled around all three. Below them, one clean berry gleamed beside the hush of the stream.

The End