Barnaby the stag was having a truly awful day. First, he’d woken up with a dreadful tickle in his nose, then he’d tripped over a particularly stubborn root, and now, to top it all off, he was hosting his annual “All-You-Can-Eat Grass Buffet” for the woodland creatures, and he was quite certain he had the stag equivalent of the flu.
“Bartholomew!” Barnaby wheezed to his badger butler, Bartholomew. “Remind me again why I insist on this…this…pasture party?”
Bartholomew, ever the professional, adjusted his tiny bow tie. “Tradition, sir. And unparalleled networking opportunities within the undergrowth community.”
Just then, a particularly portly rabbit hopped up. “Barnaby, old bean! Grass is looking… grassy! Feeling a bit peaky, though, are we?”
Barnaby sniffed. “Just a touch under the weather, Reginald. Don’t mind me. Please, gorge yourselves. The longer the grass stays short, the less… well, the less I sneeze.” He punctuated this with a surprisingly loud sneeze that sent a nearby squirrel scrambling up a tree.
As the afternoon wore on, Barnaby felt worse and worse. The constant munching was like a low-frequency hum that vibrated directly into his skull. Finally, he could take it no more. He beckoned Bartholomew. “Bartholomew, I need… I need something strong. Something… medicinal.”
Bartholomew nodded knowingly and returned with a small vial filled with a suspiciously dark liquid. “Grandmother’s elderberry elixir, sir. Guaranteed to cure what ails ya.”
Barnaby downed the concoction in one gulp. It tasted vaguely of licorice and regret. Almost immediately, he felt… different. The world seemed brighter. The munching… more musical.
He stood up, a wide grin spreading across his face. He surveyed his grass-guzzling guests. “Right then!” he bellowed. “Who’s up for a limbo competition?!”
The rabbits gasped. The squirrels chattered. Bartholomew fainted.
Barnaby, now convinced he could fly, proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to teach a grumpy hedgehog how to do the Macarena. It was then that a wise old owl hooted from a nearby branch, “Barnaby, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your grandmother’s elderberry ‘elixir’ wasn’t elderberry at all. It was fermented foxglove juice… designed to deter, not cure, the Sick Stag’s Grass-Guzzling Guests!”
