A Matter of False Accusation

Accusing an honest rabbit of raiding chocolate cookies is downright offensive—especially when everyone knows I only care about real crops. Still, I marched straight into the kitchen to clear my name. Up on the low counter sat that crinkled blue package with dark crumbs scattered across the laminate. I propped my paws squarely beside the torn foil and leaned down to inspect the mess. Beside the wrapper lay a pale crumb that smelled intensely of sweet sugar and processed cream, not an ounce of soil or fresh parsley in sight. I nudged the stray wrapper away with my snout to show my complete lack of interest. If you want a culprit, blame the wind or your own sweet tooth, not a hardworking gardener.