The Hedgehog Who Hid in the Fog

Once upon a time, there was a hedgehog who loved living in the fog.

To others, fog was a gloomy, damp nuisance that turned the world into a grey blur. But to this hedgehog, it was freedom, a perfect excuse for everything in life he wanted to avoid.

When a nosy neighbor would call out, “Come over for a cup of Birch juice!” he would sigh and reply:

“I can’t. I’m a hedgehog in the fog.”

And no one argued. Because it was the fog, after all—who would risk getting lost for a cup of juice that might be gone by the time they crawled through the mist, or worse, find the Birch trees chopped down by poachers before they arrived?

When a flirtatious she-hedgehog would give him a coy nudge and suggest that perhaps it was time to think about marriage, he would lower his eyes and say, with tragic seriousness:

“I can’t. I’m a hedgehog in the fog.”

Everyone understood. There was no room for love in the fog. It was hard enough trying to find yourself, let alone someone else, in that endless swirl of grey. Marriage certificates would crumble while they spent their lives searching for each other, trying to wave their wedding rings in the mist.

Relatives rarely visited, and if they did, they would get lost on the way back and swear never to return. Even the neighbors stopped asking to borrow mushrooms until the “autumn after next.” The hedgehog was pleased. After all, the only mushrooms he was willing to lend them were toadstools, and no one ever came to take them.

So, the hedgehog was content. He would dry baskets of poisonous toadstools just in case someone ever decided to visit, so he could offer them as gifts with a smile.

But one morning, everything changed.

The fog was gone.

The hedgehog poked his head out of his little hut and squinted in horror at the clear sky, the sharp outlines of trees, and the frightening visibility of everything. His comfort was gone, and with it, his perfect excuse.

And then he remembered.

For forty-four years and two months, he had lived in the fog, unnoticed by the tax authorities. Now, in this terrifyingly clear day, the hedgehog realized they would find him, and he would be jailed for the same term for not paying taxes.

As if the universe had been waiting for this moment, there was a sharp knock at the door.

“Talk of the devil…” the hedgehog muttered, opening the door with trembling paws.

Standing there were two tax officers with muddy boots, bristly muzzles, and suspiciously pig-like faces. Their beady eyes squinted at him with bureaucratic suspicion.

“Oh, couldn’t they at least comb their muzzles before knocking?” thought the hedgehog.

The pigs were thinking the same about the hedgehog’s spines.

“May we come in?” they grunted politely.

The hedgehog sighed and stepped aside, thinking, “And their ears are filthy too… Wait, they are pigs. Taxing-oinking pigs.”

The pigs waddled in, their little eyes scanning the hut with disapproval.

“Why do they look so unhappy?” the hedgehog wondered. “I cleaned this place just last year.”

One of the pigs snorted, “Where’s your toilet?”

“Are you planning to inventory my sanitary engineering?” the hedgehog asked with a glare.

The pigs exchanged a knowing look.

“When did you last pay your taxes?”

“The same time I paid for the first time,” the hedgehog replied. “And you know what they say, the first time is always the last.”

“Do you have any inheritance we should know about?” the other pig barked.

“Well, there’s some land far away, but it’s too much trouble to go there. If you want, you can take it, and leave me thirty percent.”

The pigs ignored him and turned their attention to a bundle of mushrooms drying by the stove.

“What are these mushrooms you’re drying?”

“Oh, those? Porcini!” the hedgehog chirped, trying to sound innocent.

“Why are they green?”

“Ah, well… they turn that color when they’re drying, you see…” the hedgehog stammered. Then, hoping to soften them, he added, “Would you like some mushrooms?”

“We don’t eat while on duty,” the pig grunted.

The hedgehog’s shoulders drooped. Then he perked up again, “I also have some berries! I don’t remember their name, but those who survived eating them said they were quite tasty!”

One of the pigs licked his lips but shook his head. “We’ll take your garbage can for examination. And that plant.”

“That’s not garbage, that’s my geranium!” the hedgehog protested.

“We’re taking it anyway,” the pig said. “We’ll be back tomorrow for the rest.”

The hedgehog sighed, defeated, and in a final act of petty revenge, bit off half of the geranium before handing it over. Unfortunately, it got stuck in his throat, a fitting punishment for not watering it as long as he hadn’t paid his taxes.

He opened the door to let the pigs out, and to his astonishment, he saw the thick, beautiful fog rolling back in.

A smile spread across his face. The fog was back!

He opened the door wider and called out cheerfully to the pigs as they waddled into the swirling grey:

“Farewell!”

Then he shut the door, leaned back against it, and sighed with relief. The fog was back to stay, and so was his freedom from visits, taxes, and everything else he never wanted to deal with.

And so, the hedgehog remained a hedgehog in the fog, happily hidden, until the end of his days.

Moral of the Story:
Sometimes, hiding in your fog is the only way to stay happy.