A Hundred Acres Would

Christopher Robin was 18. He’d lost his virginity, packed up his notebooks and moved to University. The toys stayed in his room. They could finally live the life they wanted—no more silly songs, no more getting lost in the woods. No more getting stuck in various dugouts and hollow trees and no longer having to put up with that fucking Tigger…Christopher Robin and Roo were the only ones who liked the furry shmuck anyhow and lately even Roo had been growing weary of his antics (again, one can only get stuck in a tree so many times).

The Hundred-Acre Wood had a different feel to it, a different scent in the air. A lightness to the energy surrounding the wooded dwellings. No longer did the citizens of the Wood feel the constraints of Christopher Robin’s immature, childish imagination. Finally everybody could go in their own directions, grow individually without the limits of a young boy’s confused (if not playful) imagination.


Owl


Sitting in his cottage atop the trees, Owl sipped his tea silently while reading the local paper. He had never known he could read before Christopher Robin had left. He enjoyed the silence of his abode. The realization of a boisterousness and an ignorance to his words had shocked and upset Owl.

It occurred one Wednesday. Owl invited Piglet over for scones and a delicious desert of found woodland rat. Owl didn’t very much like Piglet but enjoyed talking to him for some reason- Piglet would come occasionally. When he did he would never say a word- Piglet would simply avoid the dead rat on the table and silently pick at the dry scones as Owl prattled on and on about that and that.

Piglet only came over on this particular Wednesday for one reason. Piglet was waiting for it. He had been waiting for ten long years and this overcast Wednesday would be the long awaited anniversary. Well, Piglet took his seat and picked at his dry scone as Owl prattled on and on about that and that. The old bird flapped his beak for four hours- Piglet simply sat and picked at his “treat” until is was only a few crumbs left under his chair. The Pookoo clock went off in Owl’s kitchen (a gift from Pooh Bear a few years ago but Owl always suspected it had been regifted by his old friend—whenever Owl thought of this he’d shake his head, “Silly old bear…”)

POO-KOO! POO-KOO! POO-KOO! POO-KOO! POO-KOO!

“My dear,” exclaimed Owl. “It’s five o’clock already? My dear piglet, I must excuse myself from this exceptional conversation with you as I have a dinner party to attend with the Earl of Flimjam (a nighthawk, you see) and Gopher. We’ll be dining on, well, Gopher hopefully…. You see, my dear Piglet, we bird of prey (we’re called birds of prey, didn’t you know—“

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, OWL!” shouted Piglet, pushing harder against his little vocal chords than he had ever been used to.

“Pardon--” asked a quite shocked Owl.

“You, Owl, never shut the fuck up.” Began Piglet’s rant. “What do you think? Do you think I come over because I like listening to your long, tangential stories about nothing?”

“Well—“

“Do you even care who you invite over? Or is it just anybody who will listen? Owl, you’ve lived in the Wood for fifty years and I never see you—“

“Now, now then. I’ve inv—“

“I’m not finished, Owl, I’m not even close to finished, you—“

“But I am finished. I invite you to my home, I feed you, I regale you with stories of my exploits and travels and this is the thanks I get. What a rude…and, and a thoughtless little pig you are.”
The room stopped. Piglet stared at his host. Owl stuck his beak in the air and haughtily raised his nose (beak) in the air. “Do you…” Piglet began. “Do you even know what today is?”

Thrown for a loop. Owl responded “Umm… perhaps… Bastille Day, yes, today must be Bastille D—“

“Ten years ago was a blustery day. You blamed Pooh for destroying your home and I happene—“

“My dear Piglet, Pooh did indeed wreck my lovel—“

“NO!”

Owl was flustered by this incessant interruption and need for volume on Piglet’s part. He had never seen his “friend” act in such a manner and for the first time in his life, Owl decided it was best to just close his beak, look forward and hear someone else out.

“No, Owl—” seethed the fiery little pork. “Ten years ago, Eeyore offered my home to you. You blamed Pooh for destroying yours and you took mine. Owl, ten years ago, today you took my home. Today when you invited me over I thought you knew. I thought you were building it up and I was waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and what do I get? What do I get, Owl? Bastille Day!”

“What do you expect of me?”

“You can’t piece it together?” Piglet’s rage subsided into a murky sadness. “Ten years and you still can’t figure it out…no wonder.”

Piglet grabbed his coat from the hook, sniffed his little snout and walked opened the door.

“Now, Piglet, please—“

“It’s such a hard world, Owl, for such a small animal.”

And with that, Piglet was gone. Owl fell into his rocking chair. He was silent. He couldn’t rock back and forth, enjoying a pleasant hum. He couldn’t possibly go to dinner anymore. He simply sat there…confused…sad...upset…profoundly upset, even. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why Piglet was so, so heated and saddened.

Now Owl sits at home quietly thinking of ways to make it up to Piglet. Perhaps a meal out. Perhaps a proper two-person conversation. But he didn’t want to upset his “friend” any further—he simply wanted to make things right….he did so in his own little way. Minding his beak and keeping it shut.