My wife bought me a stuffed hedgehog for Christmas, which I received early. Her name is Trudi. When a friend and fellow writer suggested that my picture book career would now commence, I quickly composed the following story, which is sure to be a timeless classic with songs, TV specials, and other treatments. Why, I’m convinced that if Trudi is not the next Rudolph, she is at least the next Olive. Here’s the story.
Little Trudi wanted nothing but bugs for Christmas.
“Yes,” she said. “Bugs. I eat bugs. You got a problem with that Santa? Because it just so happens I’m an insectivore.” She was on Santa’s knee at Macy’s, telling him what she wanted for Christmas.
“Um, no, I don’t have a problem with that at all,” he said. “Actually, I have a bit of an infestation at the workshop. Trudi, with your little claws and teeth so capable, won’t you come to the North Pole and exterminate the bugs who’ve made my workshop intolerable?”
“Of course!” said Trudi.
They left the Santa Village at the department store and hurried off in Santa’s sleigh to the North Pole, where Trudi fattened herself up on the cockroaches that had gotten into the workshop, nibbling off their legs and then cracking open their shells to suck out their yummy cockroachy inner goo.
By Christmas, the roaches were gone and Trudi weighed 14 pounds, which is really big for a hedgehog. It was a merry Christmas for everyone.