The Very Competitive Squirrel

Vera was a squirrel who counted everything.

She counted the stripes on caterpillars. She counted the bumps on pinecones. She counted the number of times Old Heron blinked in one afternoon, which was seventeen, in case you were wondering.

But mostly, Vera counted acorns.

Every autumn, Vera buried her acorns in neat, perfect rows beneath the old oak tree. And every autumn, she counted each one as it went into the ground.

"Eight hundred and forty-four," she whispered, patting the dirt. "Eight hundred and forty-five. Eight hundred and forty-six. Eight hundred and forty-SEVEN." She wiped her paws and stood up tall. "Eight hundred and forty-seven acorns. A new personal best."

Vera did a little dance right there in the meadow — a shuffly, fluffy-tailed, extremely proud squirrel dance.

Then she heard a voice.

"Eight hundred and forty-eight!"

Vera stopped mid-shuffle.

Across the meadow, a big gray squirrel named Gerald was also patting dirt, also standing up tall, and also looking extremely proud.

"Eight hundred and forty-eight acorns!" Gerald announced to absolutely no one. He brushed off his paws. "Not bad, not bad."

Vera's left eye twitched.

Eight hundred and forty-eight.

That was one more than eight hundred and forty-seven.

This could not stand.

That night, while every other animal in the forest was sleeping, Vera was wide awake, pacing back and forth on her branch.

"I just need one more acorn," she muttered. "Just one. One acorn, and I'll be tied. TWO acorns, and I'll be ahead. THREE acorns, and I'll be SO far ahead that—"

She stopped. She was getting carried away. She did that sometimes.

"One acorn," she said firmly. "I will find one acorn."

At sunrise, Vera zoomed down her tree and began searching. She checked under bushes. She checked behind rocks. She checked inside a hollow log, where she accidentally woke up a very grumpy toad.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she said, backing away.

But she could not find a single acorn. It was late autumn, and the ground was bare.

Then — there! Sitting on a stump at the edge of the meadow was one perfect, beautiful, round little acorn.

Vera sprinted toward it.

But someone else was sprinting too.

Gerald.

They reached the acorn at the exact same moment. Vera grabbed one side. Gerald grabbed the other.

"I saw it first," said Vera.

"I saw it firster," said Gerald.

"That's not a word."

"It is now."

They stared at each other. Neither one let go.

"I need this acorn," said Vera. "I have eight hundred and forty-seven, and you have eight hundred and forty-eight, and that is — that is simply — it's UNACCEPTABLE."

Gerald blinked. "Wait. You counted my acorns?"

Vera's ears went hot. "I didn't COUNT them. I just... heard you. You said it very loudly."

Gerald tilted his head. "Why does it matter if I have one more?"

"BECAUSE," said Vera, and then she couldn't think of the rest of the sentence, so she just said "BECAUSE" again, louder.

Neither squirrel let go of that acorn.

They held on while the wind blew. They held on while it started to drizzle. They held on while a deer walked by, looked at them, shook her head, and kept walking.

"This is getting ridiculous," said Gerald.

"Then let go," said Vera.

"YOU let go."

"No, YOU."

They were still standing there, holding that acorn, when a small, soft voice came from below.

"Excuse me?"

They looked down. A tiny chipmunk was sitting at their feet. She was very small — even for a chipmunk — and her cheeks were completely empty.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said quietly. "I'm Hazel. I just moved here, and I don't really know where to find food, and I haven't stored anything for winter yet, and... well..." She looked at the acorn. "Do you think I could maybe have that?"

There was a long pause.

Vera looked at the acorn. She looked at Gerald. She looked at Hazel, who was so small that a maple leaf could have been her blanket.

Vera's grip loosened — just a little.

But her brain immediately shouted: DON'T YOU DARE! You'll be TWO behind Gerald! TWO!

She tightened her grip again.

Gerald noticed. He looked at Vera. Then he looked at Hazel. Then he did something Vera did not expect.

He let go of the acorn.

"Here," said Gerald. "Take it."

Vera stood there, holding the acorn alone now, with Hazel looking up at her hopefully.

Her brain was doing math very fast. If I keep this acorn, I'll have 848. Gerald will have 848. We'll be TIED. That's fair. That's fine. The chipmunk can find her own—

But Hazel's eyes were very big. And very hopeful. And the wind was getting colder.

Vera sighed an enormous sigh — the kind of sigh that comes all the way from your tail.

She held out the acorn to Hazel.

"Take it," Vera said.

Hazel's face lit up like a tiny sunrise. "Really? Oh, THANK you! Thank you, thank you!" She grabbed the acorn, hugged it to her chest, and scurried away across the meadow.

Vera watched her go.

"Well," said Gerald. "Now I have eight hundred and forty-eight, and you have eight hundred and forty-seven."

"I KNOW, Gerald."

"Just making sure you knew."

"I know VERY well, Gerald."

That should have been the end of it. But the next morning, Vera found something odd at the base of her tree.

An acorn.

It had a tiny leaf tied around it like a bow.

Next to it, a little note was scratched in the dirt: "From Hazel. She showed me where the best acorn spots are! I found extra! This one's for you!"

Vera picked it up. Eight hundred and forty-eight. She was tied with Gerald.

She should have felt triumphant. She should have done her shuffly victory dance.

Instead, she just felt... warm.

Then she found ANOTHER acorn a few steps away. This one had a note too: "Hazel showed ME the good spots as well. Here's one for you. — Gerald."

Vera stared at it.

Eight hundred and forty-nine.

She was ahead.

She waited for the fireworks in her brain. She waited for the thrill, the excitement, the victory parade.

But the only thing she felt was a little laugh bubbling up in her chest.

She laughed and laughed, standing there in the cold morning air with an acorn in each paw, because the number didn't matter nearly as much as she thought it would. It turned out that the warm feeling from yesterday — the one she got from handing that acorn to a tiny chipmunk — that feeling was bigger than any number she'd ever counted.

That winter, something new happened in the forest.

Vera still counted things. She couldn't help it. It was just how her brain worked, and she liked it that way.

But now she counted different things too.

She counted the number of times Hazel laughed when they played hide-and-seek in the snow. She counted the pinecone towers she and Gerald built before they toppled over. She counted the cups of warm acorn soup she shared on cold evenings in her cozy tree.

And every single one of those numbers was her new personal best.