A Fable About Rage

There once was a badger who liked things in a particular way.
His territory just so.
His burrow just so.
His meals just so.
His fur, just so sleek.
His claws, just so sharp.
He got up at the same time every morning.
He went to bed at the same time every night.
He was lonely but content.
Everything had its purpose.
Everything had its place.
One day a clan of squirrels came to live in the tree atop the badger's burrow.
He did not like this.
They scuffed his grass.
They scratched his trees.
Their incessant chatter filled his peaceful glade.
The squirrels tried to be friends with the badger but he ignored them.
He went about his routines pretending as if they were not there.
All the while something hot and dark began to grow inside him.
Over time a thousand little irritants stoked this little spark.
His anger, bottled up and never spoken, built into a great and consuming fire.
One day while on his morning walk a squirrel accidentally dropped an acorn on his head.
At that moment the fire was given shape, form, and deadly purpose.
It burned.
For some time the quiet of the forest was broken.
Coming from the shaded glade were screeches, whines, pleas, and groans.
Time passed and cruel Nature did her worst.

The badger wept.
His sleek coat now sticky and matted.
His bright claws now stained and dull.
Surrounded by tufts of fur, blood, and bone.
He met grief and shame and bottomless regret.