A blissfull day

 ...it should have been. Everything was planned. He wanted to sleep in, tidy up a bit, and then start repairing his burrow—nothing major, just remove a few shoots that had pushed into the tunnels.
Instead, he torments himself restlessly in his nest of moss and fine roots. After an unpleasant night of tossing and turning, kicking, and sniffing at the ceiling, there's nothing he'd like better than to go back to sleep, truly comfortable and cozy—and, above all, pain-free.
He hadn't slept properly for days and nights, and couldn't fall asleep at all. Not even when he listened to the lazy wriggling of the headless earthworms over in his pantry. In their circling movements, he thought he recognized the tireless, steady pounding in his tooth.
If only he had a rock with which to knock this aching tooth out of his mouth. This tooth, this stupid tooth! How easy it would be to smash it—so that the splinters would fly around like crazy in his mouth, but the pain would finally subside.
"Immediately," Blue-Ear says loudly and demandingly to himself. It means it's time to put an end to the suffering.
Blue-Ear sneaks through his bedroom. He's barely able to lift his head. He moans and complains.
He glances briefly over into his pantry. He sticks his nose in, sniffs—and immediately the panicked wriggling of the earthworms begins. Blue-Ear has bitten off all the worms' heads. It's simply better this way. The screaming annoys him. And earthworms can survive just fine without heads for a short time.
Should he choke down one of these pathetic creatures?
Although... "pathetic"—well, okay. He has to eat, after all. Everyone has to eat something. Stay alive.
But no – he doesn't want to. Or rather: he can't. Everything hurts too much.
"Immediately," he says aloud to himself once more.
Under normal circumstances, Blue-Ear follows a strict day-night rhythm. He digs and eats for four to five hours, then sleeps for two to three hours – and then it all starts again. He enjoys his regular daily routine, always tries to make the best of every situation, and avoids any contact with neighbors or passing strangers as much as possible. In short: Blue-Ear is a committed loner at heart.
Under ideal soil conditions, he can effortlessly dig tunnels up to seven meters long per hour. In his extensive tunnel system, he creates resting rooms, storerooms, and living dens – his very own underground kingdom. Of course, his nesting den is especially important to him.
The pain in his mouth simply won't subside. Blue-ear rubs his cheek on a piece of tree bark, but it doesn't help.
"Maybe I've just been nibbling on the wrong rootstock for too long," he considers. "Maybe the tooth will heal on its own..."
But the more time passes, the worse it gets. A dull thumping sound is now pounding.

hrough his head. This isn't normal. He has to do something. Immediately.
The mere thought of not being able to get rid of his terrible suffering soon makes him dizzy. Almost worse, however, is the idea of having to leave his protective burrow in bright daylight.
But what other options does he have?
He stretches his limbs and cautiously hops out of the burrow. The sun is already high in the sky, but Blue-Ear doesn't care. The wind carries all sorts of smells to him—damp earth, the resinous aroma of trees, the distant scent of mushrooms... but none of them interest him right now. His tooth pecks and tugs, and he can't think of anything else.
He scampers across the moss, deftly climbs a branch, and stops briefly to get his bearings. He sniffs around, rolls his thoughts over, keeps a listening ear out for possible predators—and bristles his bluish fur to appear bigger, stronger.
The tilt of his head is nevertheless arrogant – like the colorfully feathered bird up there in the densely tangled branches. In nature, one is accustomed to being more than one is. To smile cheekily when things get tough. To curl one's lips, to show one's teeth when...
Oh my God, the pain!
Who could possibly help him?
Come on, you're pretty stubborn – so it won't be that difficult to find a solution to your problem.
The chattering owl, perhaps? No. It always speaks in riddles, and at this moment he has no patience for its stupid and boring stories.
The badger? Hmm. It's strong and knows a lot about everything. But it's also grumpy – and doesn't like being disturbed during its daytime naps at all.
Blue-Ear shakes his head. No, actually, there's only one real option: a bear.
Undoubtedly, one can get into a lot of unnecessary trouble with such an unpredictable bear. But the fact is: a truly well-traveled bear has seen, sniffed, and tasted a lot – and all of this has become embedded deep in his cozy head as a kind of strange knowledge.
And most importantly of all: a bear loves honey. And everyone knows that honey soothes the head and eases pain.
But where on earth would Blue-Ear find a bear now? And even if he did find one, how would he flatter it?
Bears generally have a peculiar, almost affectionate nature – at least as long as they aren't planning to devour you with relish.
No. Despite all his despair, that possibility is probably better ruled out.
Then another thought seems far wiser to him.
Miss Bobbit – the neighbor across the street.
Under normal circumstances, it would never occur to him to ask Miss Bobbit a question. Or worse – to ask her for help.
The mere thought of it makes him shiver.
He can already picture her looking at him with raised eyebrows, whispering an exaggeratedly understanding "Oh my goodness!" and then immediately starting to chatter wildly.
But what else can he do? The pain is deep, his head is pounding, and the thought of spending another night like this is simply unbearable.
So he shakes himself briefly, straightens his fur as best he can, and slowly starts moving.

To Miss Bobbit.
Immediately.
He'd reluctantly had many a conversation with her, across the curb, as she beckoned him over in her croaky voice. Always with her paws outstretched, as if he were a lost baby in desperate need of collection. And each time, she offered him something—a scrap of a beetle, half a spider, perhaps?
But Blue-Ear knows exactly what's going on in her head. Miss Bobbit is always a little too thorough, much too plump, a little too lazy, and decidedly too forward. But she's not to be underestimated. Oh no! When it comes to coaxing something decent into her crib, she's smarter than a raccoon with a sugar cube in sight.
To avoid rushing in—and immediately finding himself back in Miss Bobbit's compassionate arms—he'd first politely inquire about her well-being.
That certainly seems like the most sensible way to start.
Whether he can bear her pompous, self-satisfied expression without immediately revealing his pain is another matter.
A small smile on his part might not hurt. But Blue-Ear is very peculiar in his manner, in his demeanor, and especially in his lifestyle.
For example, he loves it when a fine mist tickles his forehead shortly after he's had a violent sneeze.
And—whether it should be mentioned or not—it's just true: He likes it when a gentle, liberating breeze escapes him after a hearty feast.
But a smile? Oh dear...
So how should he confront Miss Bobbit without her calling him a grumpy old man and sending him home immediately?
Blue-Ear knows full well: Miss Bobbit surrounds herself only with cheerful people. Grouches don't stand a chance with her.
But he's equally certain that she sees him—despite his rather gruff nature—as a challenge.
And challenges, as everyone knows, are hard for Miss Bobbit to resist.
"What's that?!" Miss Bobbit cries out in alarm as Blue-Ear—without warning—burrows right through her well-kept burrow.
When his pink nose finally peeks through the disturbed earth and she catches his familiar scent, her face instantly brightens. Overjoyed—and completely misunderstanding the situation—she thinks to herself: If you're not admired, no one will bother to visit you. So she says excitedly, "Oh, Buzzi, what are you doing here?"
Blue-Ear doesn't like it at all when she calls him Buzzi.
But Miss Bobbit has a keen sense for sweet-sounding words and tender stories. She holds the gentle and beautiful in high esteem – but shows little understanding when others, too, prefer the delicate and less the weighty in matters of the heart.
Miss Bobbit tilts her head to the side and looks at her Blue-Ear with tiny, cloudy eyes.
She sniffs through his fur and says, "Oh, Buzzi, I'm so glad you came to see me! Sometimes I really don't know what's wrong with you. You always seem irritable and so...rejecting when I try to visit you."
The pain in Blue-Ear's tooth is almost unbearable. And so he says succinctly:
"I have...a toothache. It hurts so much!"

He attempts a small welcoming smile, but the startled twitch on Miss Bobbit's face reveals that he's not doing a particularly good job.
"Toothache! Oh my goodness! You wouldn't wish that on anyone," Miss Bobbit exclaims, almost sympathetically. And then, in true pragmatic fashion, she adds, "Have you tried running headfirst into a wall?"
Miss Bobbit is—let's just say—quite rustic when it comes to treating aches and pains.
Blue-Ear isn't very enthusiastic about this method... to say the least.
"Against a wall?" he asks, perplexed, with a paw on his cheek.
Miss Bobbit approaches, places her tiny paw on his, and says firmly, "Hush now, my Buzzi. You just have to find a pain worse than the one you're experiencing now. You'll just have a headache afterwards."
Blue-Ear blinks. "And the pain in my tooth?"
Miss Bobbit smiles mischievously and narrows her night-dark eyes. "It'll be gone then—as a sore tooth should be."
She shakes herself as if she'd just had a particularly brilliant idea, giggles, and says,
"Or you could just cut off your leg. It has the same effect."
Blue-Ear stares at her, aghast. He takes the suggestion frighteningly seriously.
This just keeps getting better and better, he thinks, and at the same time deeply regrets having come here in the first place.
But what should he do now? Just leave? The pain only gets worse the more he tries to ignore it. His throbbing tooth made it abundantly clear to him that forgetting might be a solution in matters of the heart—but hardly the right remedy for toothache.
Squinting one eye and with a busy little snout, Miss Bobbit speaks with meaningful sincerity.
"There's only one thing to do," she announces solemnly. "Or to be precise, only one person can help."
She shakes herself, as if to emphasize how horrific, yet inevitable, her revelation will be.
"Of course, not just anyone can handle something this delicate," says Miss Bobbit, raising one of her tiny paws as if launching into a poignant speech. "It requires intuition, subtlety, and—crucially—a little compassion and courage. For both—patient and doctor."
She lets this sentence hang in the air for a moment and then begins meaningfully: "And I know just the right person."
Blue-Ear grimaces. "Who?"
Miss Bobbit grins mischievously. "Dr. Freud... a hedgehog." She pauses, shaking her head amusedly. "Oh, what am I saying—a hedgehog? Silly me! The hedgehog! Dr. Freud!"
Blue-Ear frowns. "A hedgehog can help me?"
Miss Bobbit nods eagerly. "Of course! Buzzi, Dr. Freud is no ordinary hedgehog. He's a master of the healing arts, a connoisseur of the deepest secrets of pain!"
Blue-Ear snorts skeptically. "And you're sure he knows something about teeth?"
Miss Bobbit shrugs. "Who knows? But he knows something about minds—and your problem is right inside one, after all."

Blue-Ear sighs deeply. That doesn't sound particularly reassuring, but his throbbing tooth leaves him no choice. "Very well," he grumbles. "Then take me to that miracle doctor."

Miss Bobbit claps her paws enthusiastically. "Oh, poor Buzzi," the intensity of the moment is clearly evident in her slightly quivering whiskers.

Then the clapping stops, and the two move out of the burrow as quietly as if to avoid waking a sleeping family member.

Miss Bobbit and Blue-Ear enter a dark passage at the end of which light falls through a narrow crack in the earth. They slip through.

The light not only illuminates the passage but also diffusely illuminates a small open interior space that opens up behind it. On one side of the room rises a low platform, half-hidden behind a triple-twisted root stalk. On it stands a wide, raised bench – next to it are three stools of different heights, apparently intended to compensate for the height difference between doctor and patient if necessary.
Somewhere, a panicked centipede stomps, clacking its little legs wildly. A fine spring of water trickles quietly from a hidden corner. The air is cool and smells pleasantly of damp moss and a hint of mint.
The earth, the roots – everything is dull and black, yet sterilely clean, everything arranged in a circle. Two eyes – also circular, jet black like the rest of the cave.
There is Freud, Doctor Freud, just watching, perhaps not wanting to be disturbed, but now groaning as he unrolls onto his bench, groans, and forces a smile.
"Well, what do you say to my cozy kleine divan?" asks the tall Dr. Freud sleepily, while, not entirely reluctantly, he presents the furnishings with his arm outstretched. "Pip-fine, isn't it? I think a patient needs a comfortable platz to lie down—so they can truly enjoy the benefits of a behandlung."
In his wintry soul—which undoubtedly slumbers somewhere within him—he masterfully knows how to accompany even the casually and nonchalantly thrown-out Viennese words with a twinkle-in-the-eye charm. Something flashes: a tiny spark.
A spark that makes Miss Bobbit dizzy with love and, despite everything, brings a hopeful blush to Blue-Ear's face.
It's as if our Freud sprang directly from the mind of the real Freud. And he can't—and doesn't want to—shake off this fact.
Even if his pronunciation, choice of words, and dialect may certainly not quite correspond to the habits of the real Freud, he is still—in his own highly esteemed opinion—a worthy admirer.
In his eyes, it is quite enough to radiate the aura of wisdom, wit, and profound explanation of the world of the real and true Dr. Freud, whom he so admired.
What are a few slurred vowels and a touch of rustic coarseness when the great idea lives on within him?
After this opening, Freud stares at Miss Bobbit and Blue-Ear with a strangely meaningless look. Then he takes a breath and stretches out a paw toward each of them. The arms are surprisingly short, almost threatening, and so Blue-Ear comes dangerously close to the sharp spines.
In a strong, drawn-out Viennese dialect—or what he thinks is a Viennese dialect—Dr. Freud – now in a good mood: "Ah, schau here, two rascals – moles, Erdwerfer, Buddler, very eager Tunnelgräber from the Familie Talpidae di fido. I've had the pleasure before. It's been a while. They were two lauser. Just a little funny scuffle, nothing dramatic. One Bluzer ripped the other's belly open a little – not too bad.

I meant it to be more of an impulsive story. It really ripped the other guy's ears off.
The whole thing wasn't nice – well, not nice at all. Maybe a bit more than just a game of ringelreihen ... I had to cut off one of his ears – properly, with a clean cut – like it should be. And the other one…"
Freud looks deep into Blue-Ear's eyes, raises his paw, and slowly pulls it across his own throat.
"You understand?"
For a moment, Blue-Ear stands paralyzed, unable to speak. But then Miss Bobbit – also thoroughly intimidated – finds her voice again:
"Always these brutes. Wouldn't surprise me if it was just another jealous snatch."
"That's the way it is, my lady."
"You see where this leads."
"Where to, meine Gnädige?" Freud asks, tilting his head.
"Well, to commit to someone."
"To commit?"
"I once had a magnificent specimen like that myself. Such fur! Such a gait! An interesting spectacle! It's just a pity there was nothing in his head except laziness and—tutti-frutti."
"Tutti-frutti?"
"Ah, endless squabbles in bed."
"That's called narcissistic compensation, meine liebe," Freud murmurs, blinking mischievously and chuckling softly. "Flirting and all that... Never wasted a thought on it—no, never had anything like that."
"No one could ever lay claim to me again—they'd be in for a treat."
"Well, aren't you already a bit too... well, fortgeschritten - advanced?"
"My dear, loving doctor—advanced?" Miss Bobbit raises her eyebrows and gives him a sweet smile.
"For tutti-frutti," Freud murmurs dryly.
Miss Bobbit sighs—a strange sigh, soft and full of tones that lie somewhere between melancholy and defiance. There's something in it that's hard to interpret. Longing?
Blue-Ear thinks it's longing.
He looks at her furtively. He's never seen her nose so bashfully red. Maybe it's the light... or this strange conversation.
But what does Blue-Ear know about things like love, seduction—or tutti-frutti?
He scratches his ear embarrassedly—and realizes that he lacks precisely what one could use for such topics: a little more courage.
"Oh, excuse me, mein Fräulein," says Freud. "I wish I hadn't said that."
"I see, Doctor, I see," murmurs Miss Bobbit, looking around.
"You have a lovely office here, Doctor. Really pretty and cozy, as if someone had dumped a truckload of down feathers in here."
"Not at all. Those, meine liebe, are just butterfly wings. I collected them. And a little to beautify the dull ground with it."
He smiles proudly.
"That's called circulation, myeine liebe – circulatio habitus. Nothing is wasted, verstehen Sie – you understand? The bodies – die Körper: extremely tasty, tender to the bite. And what's left over is – with a bit of finesse – used for other purposes."
He bows gallantly and points behind with one of his paws.
"May I politely present my small assortment over there? Rechts ,da Right at the back – a pile of sturdy beetle feet, ideal for cleaning teeth. And right there in front, a few particularly hard mouse bones – perfect for sharpening meine Stacheln - my spines."
Enough now, thinks Blue-Ear. Barely a few minutes in this practice, and everything is already lost in irrelevant chatter.
He clears his throat, leans forward slightly, and asks in an unusually determined tone:
"Which den did these two brutes come from? Were they Greys or Blues?"
Freud, a little irritated by the rather rude interruption, scratches the floor.
"Hmm... to be honest, I didn't look that closely, mein Freund. Could have been Blues... or maybe a Grey and a Blue—a territorial fight or sowas. Hmm, a mating dance, perhaps. Who knows for sure with such a racially degenerate creature... uh... well, let's leave it at that."
Blue-Ear frowns, already slightly annoyed.
"And how's one of them doing now? The one without an ear?"
Freud, far too full of himself to feel even the slightest bit ashamed of his rude innuendo, simply waves it off.
"Oh, you know... what kind of life would that be? What purpose would it serve, a life ohne Ohren - without ears?"
He pauses and then—as before—makes a slow, meaningful gesture with his paw, across his neck.
"...give away the spoon … you understand? Den Löffel abgeben."
Then he leans forward a little, his smile oddly gentle. "Blue-ear, right? And your title?"
"Title?"
"Well, title, what's your title? Wie ist ihr Title? Nobody's just called you only Blue-ear! Ist doch so, oder? Look at me—my name is Doctor Freud. A fine-sounding name, isn't it? But doctor isn't just a word, es ist ein Titel! A sign of rank and dignity! And—do you have such a fine title?"
Blue-ear shakes his head silently.
Freud taps his thornless chest with his paw and grins mischievously. "Well, das haben wir gleich - that's easy to change! If you don't have a title, then I'll just award you one. It's simple, so einfach, and inexpensive, too! As a renowned doctor, I'm fully entitled to do so."

Blue-ear blinks in confusion. "You... you can award titles just like that?"

Freud nodded eagerly. "Of course! Selbstverständlich! I did it that way myself. And look where I stand today—right at the top of the medical profession!" He spread his arms as if trying to impress an invisible crowd.
"Look, there are academic Titel, professional Titel, official Titel... and then there are so-called secondary titles—not quite as significant, but still. Something like 'administrative assistant'—abbreviated Aass. Or OAAss. Do you know what that means? Well? Guess what -Raten Sie!”
He grins even wider.
“The full title is, of course, Senior Administrative Assistant. Impressive, isn't it? Aber it's not for us. That's not for our league—it's for the administration, not for us- nicht gut genug.”
He lifts a single claw meaningfully.
“For us, we'll take something from the very top - von ganz oben. Something like... Privy Councilor! Senior Academic Councilor! Hmm. Maybe even Economic Councilor would be appropriate.”
He scratches himself briefly and unashamedly between his legs, then his eyes light up.
“Warten Sie—I've got it! Professor! Professor Blauohr—that has a ring to it, doesn't it?”
Blauohr blushes a little but says nothing.
“Or would you prefer something with more prestige?” Freud tilts his head. "Well, 'Doctor' would of course be a big deal ,das geht nicht – but I really wouldn't go that far. Two doctors in one room? Ich bitt Sie. Nein, that won't do... well, maybe - a baron? Or a count? That sounds richtig noble, don't you think?"
He examines Blue-Ear critically, as if already imagining a golden plaque with his name and title on his front door. "Well, what would it be?"
Blue-Ear isn't quite sure whether he should be relieved or even more worried. "And what...would such a title cost me?" he asks cautiously.
Freud smiles mischievously. "Oh, not much, let's say... a tiny favor – einen kleine Gefallen. Nothing groß, just a klitzekleine examination, which I may ask for." His eyes sparkle in a way that Blue-Ear doesn't like at all.
He steps back a bit. "Uh... maybe I should just stay Blue-Ear..."
"Whatever you say, whatever you say. You shouldn't force anyone to be their lucky bird," murmurs the hedgehog.
Blue-Ear takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. "All right..." he finally murmurs, but no sooner has he spoken than another sharp pain shoots through him, and a low growl escapes him.
"So, was is the problem today?" asks Dr. Freud, now quite casually.
"Terrible toothache," whined Blue-Ear.
"Zahnschmerzen? Oh, how sweet, wissen Sie, I'm more the type for psychosomatic tension with a bit of suffering. But a real toothache? Respect, mein Freund," says the hedgehog. "That's not a bauxerl, as we Viennese like to say... Pain, Schmerz – a truly unpleasant companion. Ein Gauner that sneaks in through the back door and then doesn't want to leave. Pain always starts quietly, and then – all of a sudden – it really hits, like the subway at five in the morning. But Schmerz is also philosophical, you understand, mein lieber Mr. Blauohr. Pain always forces you to think about life. I'm telling you: nichts, nothing is better for brooding about this and that – than such truly excruciating pain. Because consider this: as soon as the pain is gone, there's nothing left to think about. About life, about meaning, and so on. You know – a Viennese always bears pain with composure. A little bit of complaining, yes, natürlich, that's practically part of their culture. But then – you get up, drink a Spritzer, and whoops – everything's fine again."
"I just want it to stop..." laments Blauohr, as if he had barely listened to Freud's lecture.
"Aha – repression! I see, it's simply a typical symptom. So, you know, mein Lieber… it seems to me that you're carrying around a deep-seated inner conflict. A mixture of Existential fatigue and dental world-weariness – if I may say so simply and profan.”
“All from a single tooth, Doctor. That's terrible.”
“That's just how it is, mein Freund! You have to analyze it properly – it's not easy - nicht leicht, but that's what I'm here for. After all, this is my profession, I know my stuff. You can believe me: I know something about it! After all, I didn't give myself my title for no reason – you have to have a bit of brainpower.
I can say with the best of my knowledge that every tooth is a storage place for unfulfilled wishes, Wünsche, longings, dreams, Träume … although nightmares are no exception, no, no. It's all a matter of mental placement! The tooth, mein Freund, der Zahn – it's, well, the tooth is the pearl in the oyster, sozusagen - so to speak.”
He winks meaningfully and says, “Tell me, Mr. Blue-Ear – did you perhaps have a rather gray childhood?” Freud, whose small, brown face with its delicate features appears almost aristocratic, furrows it in numerous thoughtful wrinkles. With deliberate slowness, he scratches behind his ears—persistently, with the calm of a true philosopher, until he finally pulls a tiny, vigorously wriggling flea from his thick ear fur.
"Well, look at that," he murmurs contentedly, as his sharp eyes examine the delicate insect. "Something zum Schmausen, how nice"
Without further ado, he pops the wriggling flea into his mouth and begins to chew leisurely. Blue-Ear watches the spectacle with a touch of disgust—and is almost certain he heard a tiny, desperate scream from Freud's mouth.
"Toothache, Zahnschmerzen you say? Hmmm... a handsome Alpidae di Fido probably rarely encounters something so serious, am I right?"
Blue-Ear nods shyly. "I've never had such a toothache."
"But, come on! So schlimm? Na, you know mein Freund, i'll just say one word—namely, listen up: panic. You know, panic is the last thing you need in a situation like this—or rather, the first thing you shouldn't allow under any circumstances. So, rule number one: Keine Panik - don't panic!"
He straightens his small shoulders and continues with a meaningful expression: "This doesn't just apply to the patient, by the way. Even a doctor of rank and reputation can be struck by a minor panic attack now and then. But don't worry! With a renowned specialist like me, there's obviously no reason for it."
Then something suddenly seems to occur to him. He rubs his chin thoughtfully—or the closest thing to a chin on a hedgehog—and asks: "Have I actually asked you about your childhood yet - ihre Kinheit? Yes, I think so... or nicht? Hmm, I sometimes forget things like that. But never mind! Tell me again, just a little bit, ein wenig mehr. Maybe then the pain will go away on its own."
"Do you really think so?" asks Blue-Ear skeptically.
"Yes, of course!" exclaims the hedgehog enthusiastically. "You just have to examine everything thoroughly. Who knows—perhaps your pain is purely psychological! Anything is possible. Alles is möglich. You have to know: science is a science in itself."
He waves his hand and adds: "We're not talking about a simple toothache, no - natürlich nicht, we're talking about psychological erosion, trauma-induced nerve irritation, the unfortunate dominance of pain!"
He pauses, turns to Blue-Ear, and places a slightly bent, dry branch across his head.
"Mein stereoscope," Freud says matter-of-factly, without offering any further explanation.
"Do you often have the feeling of being overlooked? Of sinking into the earth, metaphorically speaking? Or, uh, quite literally?"

Blue-Ear swallows. "So, I... well, I live underground..."
"Aha! Repression! Classic case, ganz klassischer Fall!", exclaims Dr. Freud triumphantly, as if he'd just untied a particularly tricky knot. "Tell me, do you sometimes dream of wild teeth lustfully scraping your little bones? Did your dear mother pay too little attention to you as a child? Was freedom just a blurry speck in the distance for you? Did you ever have the crazy idea of making sex with your mother? How many Mädels have you had a gspusi ,in other words a unchaste affairs with?, so schnickschnak wissens? And don't leave out any details in the answer to that last question, please. What do you dream about in spring? Do you dream often?
"Oh God," says Blue-Ear quietly, "I just wish the pain would finally stop."
"Well -is doch klar, that's a dream too, mein Freund. And Träume are messages. You just have to interpret them correctly. But okay—before we proceed with the diagnosis, perhaps we should take a look into that suffering little Schnautzerl. Open your mouth a little, please. You'll soon see what a difference it makes to be treated by a renowned—self-trained—doctor, as opposed to a good-for-nothing without such a wonderful Titel."
"We'll have it now, my dear!" the doctor calls toward the next room, where Miss Bobbit is dozing comfortably, stretched out on all fours, and sucking relishably on a tangy butterfly larva.
"Good to hear," she replies lazily. "So the problem will soon be solved?"
"Oh, yeah, a kleiner, nasty tooth, but nothing I can't take care of in ein Minute," Freud boasts, blinking at Blue-Ear with an almost conspiratorial grin. Then he leans close to his little face. "Tuttifrutti," he breathes meaningfully.

Trying to appear unselfconscious, Blue-Ear reaches for a small sheet of leaf and begins to study its lines and creases in detail. But he feels the doctor's piercing gaze, which doesn't take its eyes off him for a second.
Suppose everything goes wrong..., Blue-Ear thinks to himself. Suppose the doctor isn't a real doctor at all...?
He scratches his head, and suddenly an uncontrollable tremor overcomes him. He resists the strong temptation to hold his nose—and especially his mouth. But he covers his ears so that he can no longer hear anything.
An eerie silence falls over Blue-Ear and the office. Then – dull and unexpected – something hits him on the head.
"You have to listen when I say something, otherwise it won't work," the doctor's irritated voice calls out. "So, open that Munderl a bissl!"
The hedgehog leans forward and says conspiratorially: "Freud once said – well, Freud, of course – 'You can't talk about pain without having felt it.'"
He pauses meaningfully, then adds: "So, tell me – what's the pain like? Exactly! Every detail is important. Beschreiben`s the pain – is it more dull or a bit sharp? Does it drill, hammer, or pull?"
"It's everything at once!" Blue-Ear complains. "First it pounds like a drumbeat, then it pinches like a biting ant, and suddenly it feels like someone is bubbling boiling water around in my mouth!"
"Aha, very interesant. A complex pain symptomatology, extremely multifaceted! That confirms my theory once again.Hab i mir scho dacht"
Blue-Ear raises his eyebrows. "What theory?"
Freud clicks his tongue.

"Well, my friend—as every educated person knows, the unbearable pain doesn't originate in the tooth, aber in the head! You understand, verstehns? Your suffering may have nothing to do with dem Zahn, but rather with... your deepest inner self!"
He pauses pregnant with meaning, then puts his paws together as if preparing for a profound analysis. His spines quiver slightly with anticipation.
"Tell me—how was your relationship with your dear mother? Go ahead, just speak your mind. Don't be shy! Nur net scheu, mei Freund"
But Blue-Ear grimaces. His eyes are half-closed, his expression tired.
"I can't even talk anymore," he murmurs.
Freud sighs, but acts as if he had expected nothing else. "Well then... just lie down there auf den divan and we'll see what we can do."
Hopefully, Blue-Ear toddle over to the surprisingly comfortable couch. Hesitantly, he sits down and nervously fidgets with his belly hair.
"Now, now," Freud murmurs, plopping one buttock onto one of the wobbly stools and, full of anticipation, clicking his claws over his spiny back. "so gehen wir´s an. Just let it go, relax. Keine Aufregung, and then—off we go!"
With a quick, practiced movement, the hedgehog reaches out and, with a quiet hiccup, pulls a long, thin stinger from his back.
"Hic... it does sting a bit," he says.
The stinger is long, sharp, and damned pointy—a perfect, if somewhat unorthodox, instrument.
Blue-Ear squints suspiciously at the dangerously shimmering thorn. "And what... exactly... are you going to do with it?"
Freud winks amusedly. "Well, if you absolutely don't want a depth psychological approach, then our only option is classical surgery. Don't worry—I'm highly gifted at that too!"
Blue-Ear backs away. "You want to use that thing on my tooth?!"
"We don't want to, mein Freund und Professor! But we have to. Wir müssen.What else do we have left if we want to be free of this terrible problem? But you'll see! A quick, clean job. Barely noticeable! Well, maybe a little bit...ein bisschen..."
Blue-Ear swallows. "Uh... so... maybe we should talk a little more about my mother?"
Freud looks down at the Sting and smiles—a little longer than Blue-Ear would like. The hedgehog's eyes seem to change color: from the dull, earthy brown of a rainy autumn day to a clear, icy blue, like the last rays of the winter sun. Freud's face twists into a joyful expression, almost exuberantly animated. He beams at Blue-Ear and exclaims enthusiastically:
"Oh, I love operations! I love seeing Blut! I mean—just a little! Oh, just a tiny bit of blood, unfortunately, that can't be completely avoided, my dear Professor. Oh, how I'm looking forward to this procedure!"
Blue-Ear freezes. The fur on the back of his neck stands on end, and his tail twitches nervously. "Um... maybe... maybe we should wait a little longer before the operation?"
Freud waves his hand dismissively. "Oh nein, let's go! We'll have it done in no time!"
"Perhaps it's not as bad as it looks. Perhaps the pain will go away on its own?"
"We've already discussed all of this, my friend," Dr. Freud sighed theatrically and shook his head. "Oh, Baron Blue-Ear—or should I say, Count of Blauohr? I wouldn't have thought you capable of such hesitation! But okay, I understand, i versteh. The fear. Die Angst"
"I'm not afraid!" Blue-Ear blurts out, perhaps a little too loudly.
Freud raised an amused eyebrow. "Well, that's wonderful! Wunderbar! Then there's really no more reason to wait."
With a smooth movement, he closes his delicate little fist around the long, sharp stinger and grips it firmly. In the dim light of the room, the stinger gleams ominously.
Blue-Ear's eyes widen. His heart begins to pound wildly.
The hedgehog grins broadly.
"A thoroughly tried-and-tested tooth extraction instrument, passed down from generation to generation. Tried and tested thousands of times, tausend, believe me, absolut zuverlässig - absolutely reliable!"
"Uh... but... so...?" Blue-Ear swallows hard. From the corner of his eye, he sees Miss Bobbit yawning heartily in the next room and stretching on her twig pillow.
Unrealistically, the image of Tuttifrutti flashes through his mind again—it would almost be funny if he weren't feeling so miserable.
"Now open your mouth, my Freund," Freud purrs with mock gentleness. "Words don't heal an schlechtn Zahn." He holds up the truly terrifying stinger. "But this magnificent thing here—it does!"
Blue-Ear swallows hard. "May I... well, if it hurts too much... may I scream a little? Or at least whimper a little?"
Freud shrugs. "I don't know of any reason not to. Some patients even find it liberating. My good old Viennese friend had another wise saying: 'It's incredibly good for the body to really let off some steam.' So, go ahead! Curse, rant, let it all out! Who knows – maybe it'll heal faster than you think."
He taps the stool impatiently with his paw. "But first, maybe you'll be kind enough to allow me to take a look at the problem. Das klane problem da im Goscherl"
Blue-Ear hesitates, then closes his eyes and finally opens his mouth.
Dr. Freud, however, does not hesitate for a moment. He casually turns the thorn in his hand and taps randomly with the thick side against one of the lower incisors.
"So? Does it pinch?"
Blue-Ear shakes his head.
Freud taps the tooth next to it.
"And this does it pinch?"
Blauohr shakes his head again.
Wherever the problem lies, it's by no means as unclear to Freud as he makes it appear. The broken, black tooth is crystal clear to him.
But: a renowned doctor—or rather, an artist, as Freud sees himself—naturally requires a bit of drama. After all, it's not every day that someone comes to his practice with an ailment of this delicate nature.
To be more precise, Blauohr is his very first dental patient.
And that's precisely why Freud wants to finally tackle it.
He can hardly wait.
"Oh, dear Count Blauohr," says Freud with exuberant politeness, "could you perhaps tell me what time it is?"
It's a tried-and-tested tactic.
The patient is meant to be distracted—quite naturally, quite casually—so that he can make the crucial decision.He didn't see the moment coming.
"Well, I habe kein watch," Blue-Ear murmurs – not realizing that he's unconsciously copying Freud's way of speaking.
"I got mine for my high school graduation in Wien," says Freud, "but it doesn't work anymore. Geht leider nimmer. Zu oid. Too old. Still looks pretty, though. It's the same with teeth – they shine like crazy, carrying memories! Unfortunately, sometimes they get infected..."
While Blue-Ear is still pondering the watch, Freud has long since tackled the weak spot. He inspects the rotten tooth, taps it gently –
Blue-Ear moans: "Ooohaaahh..."
Then Freud leans very close to Blue-Ear's ear and whispers very gently:
"Is it safe?"
Blue-Ear flinches. He can't believe his ears. "Is it... safe?"
"Yes, it's safe," Freud repeats emphatically – and taps the tooth even harder with the spike.
"I don't know…" Blue-Ear gasps.
Freud raises his paw and, with palpable pleasure, brings the terrifying spike down on the same tooth again. The blow is now considerably harder than before.
"Is it safe?" Freud asks again.
Blue-Ear is now whimpering pitifully. "What… what is supposed to be safe?" he gasps desperately.
Blinded by tears of pain, he can barely see how Freud, on the other hand, is almost rolling over with laughter.
"Oh, not so important," Freud snorts, as if shaken by a violent coughing fit. "It's more like… a little homage, verstehn`s. I just thought about it briefly – nothing more. Nichts wichtiges.
But the good news: We've identified the culprit – the little, black devil's spawn. Molar, rechts aussen."
He studies the spot for a moment, then puts the stinger in his mouth and absentmindedly sucks on it.
"Schlecht, ganz schlecht," Freud whispers. "We'll do something about that right now. Sofort!"
With practiced precision and full determination, the doctor forces Blue-Ear to open his little mouth wide, and with pleasurable ecstasy, Freud drives the long, sharp stinger—well away from the rotten tooth—deep into Blue-Ear's soft, pink palate.
"GAaaahhh!" Blue-Ear flinches, being lifted violently from his lying position, his claws frantically scratching the soft couch.
"Ah, I'm so sorry!" Freud exclaims hastily as he adjusts the stinger.
"But it has to be done, my dear Commercial Councillor! It won't do any good without a little ouch."
Blue-Ear gasps, his whole body trembling.
"Ohh... Ahh...ur..o ..uch."
"That's an excellent sign! Then we're on the right track."
Freud examines his work, flicks a paw at the quill, and twists it a little further into the tender flesh.
"We're almost there... just a tiny bit more..."
Blue-Ear whimpers. "Uahh ...ca ...stand ... i"

"Aber jo, des haltens scho aus!" Freud winks. "so far, no one has died from a bissl operieren. Na ja ... also fast niemand."
Blue-Ear's eyes open wide. "Aaahh!"
"Now, now, now—who's going to die? Open your mouth—and it's best not to say anything now. Nix reden, jetzt .... we're almost there."

From outside, Miss Bobbit calls, a little dismayed: "Dr. Freud, is everything all right in there?"
Freud, holding up one front paw triumphantly, casts a satisfied glance at Blue-Ear, who lies there with glazed eyes and open mouth.
"Of course, my dear!" he calls back. "Everything's going according to plan! Ois laft super!"
Freud turns to Blue-Ear with a theatrical gesture, pulls the long thorn from Blue-Ear's sore throat, and says cheerfully: "Well, what did I tell you! Bang, boom, done! Fertig! And – how do you feel now, Professor Blauohr?"
Blue-Ear stares at Freud with wide eyes. "What?! But... but how – but no, my tooth! It's still in there! I can feel it! I mean, it still hurts terribly – and now in two places! It burns terribly! That… that can't be right!"
Freud shrugs and smiles indulgently.
"Listen, Doctor… I just want the pain to go away! Can't you just take care of it and pull the tooth out?"
Freud sighs theatrically and shakes his head thoughtfully. "Oh, mein Freund, mei liaba Freind, pulling a tooth – that would only be a purely mechanical solution! But ask yourself: Do you really want that?"
Blue-Ear narrows his eyes. "Yes... if it were possible...?"
"Well... if it isn't already obvious – I'm a professor of the higher mind, my good fellow! And by no means an ordinary dentist!"
Blue-Ear's ears heat up. His voice trembles. "No dentist?!"
"Please! Anyone can pull a tooth out – it's not a world-shattering thing, is it?" Freud waves his paw defensively. "You have to understand, my dear: Ich bin Freud – Freud – a doctor of the soul, a master of psychoanalysis! I treat the causes, not the symptoms! And your problem, mein lieber, is simply not your tooth. It's time to finally admit this thought – the pain, you understand, this wild, almost unbearable pain, it manifests itself deep within you..."
Blue-Ear's jaw drops open, this time in disbelieving horror. "But... but you stabbed me in the flesh with that thorn!"
Freud pats him patronizingly on the shoulder. "Oh yes, that... yes, na ja ...that was important and right too. It was worth a try! It usually helps to simply redirect the pain, you understand?"
Miss Bobbit, still in the waiting room, exults: "I told him twenty times! Oh, what—more than twenty times!"
Her words roll over to Blue-Ear like heavy marbles.
"Run into the wall, I told him! But no, the neighbor is so clever..."
This can't all be true. Blue-Ear closes his eyes and takes a sharp breath. It's almost as if he's merging with the throbbing pain in his tooth—a nagging, relentless throbbing that just won't let go.

"But fine, is scho guat" says Freud with a polite nod that simultaneously expresses understanding and slightly annoyed superiority. "You are, of course, free to seek a second opinion at any time."
Blauohr blinks, fighting through the pain to form a clear thought—a single, tiny note of protest against this unbearable torture.
"A second opinion? What I need is a real dentist!" growls Blue-Ear , this time emphatically.
"No problem," says Freud calmly, already fiddling around in his backside. "I'll write you a referral. Gibts halt a Überweisung. A luminary in his field. Wait, here it is—a genius in his field with a prestigious title awarded in Vienna: Professor Dr. Dr. Oberarzt Dr. Mengele. Well, if that isn't a title! You really have to earn it."
Blue-Ear raises a skeptical eyebrow. "And he knows what he's doing?"
"Of course! Years of experience, auf der ganzen Welt wohl bekannt", says Freud. "So, now I have to go, obligations and all, you understand. Schauns, machens die Tür zu wenn´s raus gehn. Close the door on the way out."
And as our Dr. Freud makes a graceful backward roll, Blauohr hears him call out:
"Mr. Blauohr, for a multitude of easily apparent reasons such as a lack of appreciation, rudeness, lack of understanding, self-pity, and—let's be honest—absolute lack of resilience, I solemnly revoke the title I so generously bestowed upon you, and so esteemed, by unanimous decision! It's my honor—habe die Ehre, Servus, und ... ich empfehle mich!"
Blue-Ear remains alone.
With a throbbing tooth and the faint but very definite feeling that something has gone terribly wrong on this blissful day.

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