The Hedgehogs' Happy Home

Barnaby Buttercup, his knees feeling like over-kneaded dough, sank onto the dew-kissed grass. The sheer, unadulterated, *joyful* bubbling emanating from the overturned terracotta pot was almost deafening. It wasn’t the frantic, desperate bubbling of a starter fearing its demise, but a contented, almost *luxurious* gurgle, as if it were being pampered in a spa. And indeed, it was.

Nestled within the remnants of the pot, a family of hedgehogs, each one a bristly ball of pure delight, were having the time of their lives. Tiny, delicate paws paddled in the frothy, yeasty embrace of Barnaby’s prize-winning sourdough starter. Their snuffling noses twitched with what could only be described as pure bliss, their beady eyes half-closed in utter contentment. One particularly portly fellow, who Barnaby mentally christened ‘Sir Reginald Snoutbottom,’ let out a tiny, contented sigh, his prickles quivering with pleasure.

It was, Barnaby had to admit through a wave of residual panic and burgeoning amusement, a rather magnificent sight. The starter, his precious, irreplaceable starter, had found a new, albeit unconventional, purpose. It wasn't a victim of foul play; it was a *foot bath*. For hedgehogs.