Puddle found the biggest puddle in the garden and kicked it hard. SPLASH. Water shot up her face, soaking her boots even wetter. She wiped her eyes and squinted.
Then she saw it — a shiny beetle, clicking down the path, rolling a perfect ball of mud-poop ahead of it. Puddle froze one boot in the wet grass. "What do you WANT?"
Puddle tipped forward and chased the beetle through the flower beds. Squeak, slide, squeak, slide — her boots spun between the dripping roses. She giggled with every splash.
Mist beaded on the petals around her, silver droplets hanging from every stem. Her arms pumped hard. The ball stayed three steps ahead, clicking, clicking, clicking.
The beetle ducked under a tangle of ivy. Puddle's boots yanked in a mud hole — she slipped, plops, knee-deep into a puddle. SPLORCH.
She sputtered, smearing mud across her lashes, blinking it off with one finger. Somewhere ahead, the ball clicked along like a tiny wooden rattle. Still ahead. Still clicking.
Puddle wiggled free, boots sucking and slurping, and lunged forward again. The beetle didn't stop. It just kept clicking, the ball bumping against the dirt.
The beetle stopped at a soft patch of soil. It rolled the ball in, pressed its little head down, and vanished into the earth. Just a round dent remained.
Puddle crouched on her tiptoes, one boot dripping. She scooped the muddy dirt to her nose, sniffed, and grinned wide — one big gap-tooth showing. "…oh."
Puddle marched to the kitchen door, mud up her knees, and tugged her mother's apron strings. "Mom! I just solved the world's smallest and stinkiest mystery!" Her mother laughed; Puddle stamped one muddy boot. THUD.