Rufus and the Upside-Down Day

Rufus woke with three socks, a pillowcase, and the washing line wound through his antlers. He blinked at the garden. The garden blinked back in a dewy sort of way. Rufus stepped forward. The line tugged. He stepped backward. The socks slapped him on the nose. Flap. Flap. Flap. Rufus’s ears flattened. “That’s it. I’m moving to the moon.”

Getting free required reversing under the line, crouching beneath a sheet, and turning sideways through a pair of enormous bloomers. Rufus did all three with dignity, if dignity could be bedraggled and wearing one sock on its ear. He wanted just one thing to go properly, so he went in for breakfast.

The berry bowls looked exactly alike. Rufus chose the fullest, took an enormous spoonful, and bit down. Sourness squeezed his whole face toward the middle. These were not the sweet blue berries. These were the sharp red ones, the sort that made his tongue feel as if it had been scolded. “That’s it. I’m moving to the moon.”

The moon, Rufus decided, probably had clearly labeled breakfast. It also had fewer washing lines, according to absolutely no research. He packed a small bag with a scarf, a spoon, and the sweet berries he should have chosen. Then he set off to find Hollis the badger, because even future moon residents need someone to play with before departure.

Rufus had just begun humming when a bee flew into his left ear. Bzzzz. Rufus froze. The humming stopped, but the bee did not. “Pardon me,” said a tiny voice from somewhere beside his thoughts. “I mistook this for a trumpet. It is surprisingly spacious.” Rufus’s eyes widened. The bee continued chatting.

Rufus tipped his head left. The bee walked deeper. He tipped right. The bee complimented the echo. He gave one careful hop, one medium hop, and one mighty hop. Boing. Boing. BOING. The bee’s voice reverberated around his head. “Wonderful acoustics,” it said. The hot prickle of frustration climbed Rufus’s neck.

At last Rufus held a buttercup beside his ear. The bee followed its smell into the sunshine. “I am terribly sorry,” it said, smoothing its wings. “Your ear was not a trumpet, and I should have asked before entering.” Then it bowed, very politely, and flew away. Rufus rubbed his ear. He was too indignant to notice the apology for long, because Hollis’s burrow was just ahead.

Hollis was balancing bark over a leaky burrow gutter. “I know we planned to play,” Hollis said, paws full of twine, “but if I stop now, the sitting room may become a swimming room.” Rufus’s chest tightened. It was sensible. It was truthful. It was also unfair that sensible, truthful things could ruin perfectly good plans. “That’s it. I’m moving to the moon.”

A fat gray cloud pushed over the hill. Hollis offered Rufus a broad leaf for the walk home. Rufus carried it above his head through one dry meadow, two dry meadows, and three completely dry meadows. Not a drop fell. His arm began to ache. “I refuse to be outsmarted by weather,” he announced, and laid the leaf down.

Rain fell at once. Plip. Plop. SPLAT. It ran between Rufus’s eyes, soaked his scarf, and filled his packed spoon. He snatched up the leaf, but now it had a hole exactly where an umbrella should not. “That’s it. I’m moving to the moon.” Thunder did not answer. The cloud was too busy raining.

By the time Rufus reached home, his fur hung in dark points and his bag squelched. He did not decide the rain was refreshing. He did not laugh about the spoon. He ate the sweet berries, but they could not undo the sour ones. The day remained calamitous right through supper and the last wet sock.

Then the day ended. Rufus climbed into bed. The room went still, except for rain whispering at the window. In the dark, he counted the bad parts. The line. The berries. The bee. Hollis being busy. The rain. His voice slowed.

There had been one good part. Tiny, but real. The bee had said sorry before it left, and it had said it very politely. Rufus tucked that part beside him and closed his eyes. Outside, the moon floated in a puddle, upside down and quiet.

The End