Russo's Remarkable Recovery

Russo, with a triumphant yip that sounded suspiciously like a goat’s bleat, skidded to a halt. There, nestled precariously between a fallen pinecone and a particularly mossy rock, was the map. It was, admittedly, a little worse for wear. A corner was undeniably crinkled, and a faint, but distinct, set of tiny teeth marks marred the edge. It looked, Russo thought with a surge of pure pride, like it had been in a daring mountain skirmish.

He nudged it with his wet nose, its paper scent now mingled with the earthy aroma of the forest floor and, if he was being honest with himself, a whisper of his own saliva. It was perfect. He grabbed it gently, or as gently as a Chiweenie with a paper-eating obsession could, and trotted back towards Amy and Rex, his little legs pumping with the speed of a seasoned explorer.

Amy gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Rex, who had been peering anxiously into the undergrowth, blinked in disbelief. “Russo! You found it!” he exclaimed, his voice laced with relief.