“
Puggle isn’t a word, Bridge.”
Letting her down gently had no effect. She stomped a boot on the ground, making the contents of the mystery pink bag rattle in her hand. “It is,” she insisted. “Ask someone.”
I looked from left to right, wondering who she was expecting me to stop. As busy as the park was, I couldn’t see a single person who looked knowledgeable in Australian wildlife. “What am I supposed to ask, Bridget?” I asked. “Excuse me ma’am, do you know what a puggle is?”
She raised her free hand, bouncing on the spot. “I know! I know!” she squealed. “It’s a baby ’chidna.”
I made a mental note to hold off on the sarcasm for a year or two. I decided to dazzle her with science instead. I took my phone from my pocket and Googled it – then had to eat my words because a baby echidna is indeed called a puggle.
“How can you possibly know the things you do?”
She grinned, reminding me too much of her mom. “I’m a smart girl, Ry.
”
”
G.J. Walker-Smith