Wheeling Gull Isle eeyore's house

For all of his effort, Titmouse wasn't a strong creature. He could fight with the beam all he wanted, bite at it, gouge the paint from its surface with his teeth or claws, but he would never be able to carry it like he might a piece of discarded pine. That didn't mean he wouldn't keep trying — although Moorhen found the object offensive, Titmouse had the opposite reaction, finding it intriguing. He kept on trying to drag the object, but only managed to score the surface with a flurry of marks, scattering dried paint and chips of wood all over the sand, at least until Moorhen chose to intervene.

As she began to work at the sand rather than the beam, Titmouse stood and watched her. Half his limbs were precariously balanced on the beam, and the other half were either planted on some loose sand or - in the case of one of his forelimbs - lifted and tentative, giving him the look of a hound dog pointing at a hidden quarry. He slipped off of the beam as Moorhen worked, drifting closer until she gave him a cue to try again. With a huff, and a deep breath punctuated with the assumption of a serious expression, Titmouse rose up on his hind limbs and lunged at the beam. This time his paws came in to contact and the entire thing shuddered, and then violently moved away from him.

The sand was loose enough from the woman's work that it could no longer root the beam, and Titmouse's intervention caused the massive thing to go sliding down the burm until it collided with a few of the large and immovable boulders by the seaside.