Two Houses Down, One to Go

The wolf, with a triumphant puff that ruffled his already rather untidy fur, surveyed the wreckage of Percival’s straw domicile. A few stray wisps of hay clung stubbornly to his snout, tickling his nose in a most irritating fashion. Still, the satisfaction of a successful demolition, a feat he considered akin to a finely tuned symphony of destruction, far outweighed the minor nasal discomfort. He licked his chops, a glint of anticipation in his beady eyes. Two down, he mentally tallied, though admittedly, one had been rather *too* down, collapsing with a sigh of resignation rather than a dramatic flourish. That straw house had been an embarrassment to the very concept of structural integrity.

Bartholomew’s stick house, however, presented a far more promising challenge. It stood, rather precariously, a haphazard jumble of twigs and branches lashed together with what looked suspiciously like dandelion fluff. Bartholomew himself was peering out from behind a particularly sturdy-looking twig, his snout twitching nervously. Percival, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with a mixture of terror and indignation, clinging to Bartholomew’s leg like a particularly damp and fluffy barnacle.

“Right then, you stick-in-the-mud!” the wolf boomed, addressing Bartholomew’s dwelling with an air of jovial menace. “Let’s see how you fare against a little bit of proper lung power!”