growled the old otter.
“Beavers!” agreed Grandpa Jack.
“How could beavers steal all of our fish?” asked Woody.
“They don’t steal them,” said Grandpa Bruno. “They stop them.”
The old brown otter jumped into the water and swam to the middle of the river where he could see past the bend. “They’ve built a dam right across, just a short way upstream,” he yelled. “All of our fish have carried on swimming downstream and no new ones can get through.”
“They’ve blocked the flow of the river!” gasped Grandma Maple.
The black and brown otters all dived into the water and swam out to Grandpa Bruno and saw for themselves that the dam was huge. There was an enormous felled tree, its trunk stripped, stretching from one bank to the other. Along its length the trunk was piled high with branches and logs, all packed tightly together with mud and grass. There was also the bristly roof of a lodge on the riverbank that had to be the beavers’ home.
“Everyone back to Cottonwood Lodge,” growled Grandpa Bruno, snorting through his nostrils. “I’m going to have a polite word with our new neighbours.”
“I’ll come too,” added Grandpa Jack. The old black otter knew only too well how hot-headed Bruno could be and wanted to keep an eye on him.
“You’re not going without us!” said Papa Black and Papa Brown.
“Be careful, all of you,” warned Grandma Maple, looking fretful. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Mama Black and Mama Brown made their husbands promise to be safe and to look after the old boxers, whose advancing years had done nothing to quell their fighting spirit. Then the two wives hugged and rubbed noses with their husbands, waved them off and herded the young otters back to the lodge.
Along the way the mother otters answered questions about beavers from Coal and Beanie, calmed fears of fish-oil shortages from Coco and Berry and told the two sets of twins to stop squabbling, all the while assuring Grandma Maple that Grandpa Bruno would return in one piece. So it was no wonder they failed to notice that two young pups were missing.
Woody and Sooty had crept away to spy on the elder males, swimming silently as they approached the dam. Then they hid behind an overhanging tree and watched as Papa Black and Papa Brown called into the entrance of the beaver lodge. The grandpas were grumbling and growling like a pair of grumpy gargoyles.
“Hello?” called Papa Black.
“Is there anyone home?” added Papa Brown.
“They must be home,” said Grandpa Jack.
“Eating our fish, no doubt!” snorted Grandpa Bruno.
“Stop that,” warned Papa Brown. “We’re being polite, remember?”
Papa Black was about to call into the dark hole once again when he heard movement from inside. The four otters stepped back just as a big rust-coloured beaver stepped out, bleary-eyed and scratching his head.
“What’s all this noise about?” he growled, and then yawned. The beaver had obviously been fast asleep and didn’t appreciate being woken up. “Don’t you know I work nights?”
“Well, that’s what we’ve come about,” said Papa Black, motioning to the felled tree and mesh of branches blocking the flow of water. “You appear to have spent the whole night building a dam that happens to be very close to our lodge.”
“Our river level is now rather low and moves much more slowly,” added Papa Brown, seeing how high the river was on the other side of the dam. “And it also appears to be entirely fish free.”
“So?” said the beaver.
“We were wondering if you wouldn’t mind moving it somewhere else,” Papa Black smiled, hopefully. “You see, there are eighteen otters already living on this section of river, all with hearty appetites, and we were here first.”
There was a long silence during which the frowning beaver seemed to consider the otter’s suggestion to move. He looked at the four adult otters in front of him; he looked at the two young otters hiding behind an overhanging tree branch, and then he looked up at his dam.
“No,” said the beaver, and made his way back inside the den.
“Ooh, let me at ’im!” growled Grandpa Bruno, already swinging his paws, but Grandpa Jack held him back until the moment passed.
Suddenly, the beaver reappeared, followed by five other beavers.
“This is my wife, Twiggy,” he said, motioning to the eldest female, who had obviously heard everything and was scowling at the otter intruders. “And those are my daughters, Holly, Willow and Hazel – also known as the Saw Sisters.”
“The sore what?” asked Papa Brown.
“The Saw Sisters,” the beaver repeated proudly. “They can fell a tree in thirty seconds and have won prizes for bark-stripping, stick-stacking and branch-breaking. You name it – they’ve won prizes for it.”
The three grown-up daughters ground their huge teeth menacingly.
“My name is Chuck,” the beaver concluded, and folded his arms defiantly. “And after we spent the whole night building a brand-new dam and cosy lodge to live in, we’re not going anywhere!”
“You forgot one!” yelled Woody from behind the rustling branch.
It was then that the head beaver frowned and remembered the youngest member of his family. The kit was standing behind his sisters, scratching in the muddy ground with a stick.
“Oh,” said Chuck with obvious disappointment. “That’s Chip.”
The young kit lifted his head at the mention of his name and smiled at the adult otters. Then he saw the otter pups behind the tree and waved at them.
“Chip was meant to be a chip off the old block and take over my dam-building business,” growled Chuck, clearly comfortable sharing his parental sorrows with perfect strangers. “But all he does is scratch around in the mud.”
“He does his best,” sighed Twiggy, patting Chip’s head.
“Hmmm,” grumbled Chuck.
“Now look here!” growled Papa Brown, thinking that the head beaver was trying to get his own way by changing the subject. “We were here first, so according to river rules that means—”
“Don’t you live in Grinder Grime’s old place?” interrupted Chuck.
“Well, we didn’t know his name, but it was an abandoned beaver lodge,” said Papa Brown. “That’s not the point, though. Cottonwood Lodge is our home now and—”
“Beavers were here first, then,” said Chuck, thumping the muddy
