Whitefish River synthwave goose

Yeah, riddles, he concurred absentmindedly, thinking little of it. This guy—his name was Skipjack—he was always telling us riddles and trying to get us to guess the answers. We almost never got them, he recollected aloud with a self-deprecating laugh.

He was just about to tell her the one about the beefalo when her disdain really registered. Caracal paused, gazing at her thoughtfully. She hadn’t wanted to give a name, now she seemed less than enthusiastic about engaging in conversation. He could take a hint, even if it took him a minute.

Anyway, I’m on the hunt for the beefalo. Gotta go! Nice to meet you! he declared, one corner of his mouth turning up at the joke. He jerked a red paw in a sort of salute, then promptly turned and dashed further upriver.