A sick stag was lying in a corner, helpless and weak. He was glad he had collected enough grass to last him through his period of illness. But suddenly, to his dismay, he saw that some friends who had

A sick stag was lying in a corner, helpless and weak. He was glad he had collected enough grass to last him through his period of illness. But suddenly, to his dismay, he saw that some friends who had come to visit him, ostensibly to offer comfort and well wishes, had developed an unfortunate case of 'sympathy hunger.' They weren't just visiting; they were subtly, yet relentlessly, nibbling their way through his meticulously gathered winter provisions.

First, it was Barry, the overly enthusiastic badger, who "accidentally" knocked over a pile of prime, sun-dried clover. "Oopsie! Just helping you air it out, old chap!" he chirped, promptly munching on a mouthful.

Then came the twin rabbits, Pip and Squeak, who, with innocent eyes, declared, "Oh, Mr. Stag, you look so weak! We brought you some fresh dandelion greens!" – only to immediately start devouring his carefully stacked sweet grass, "just to make sure it wasn't poisoned, of course!"

The stag, whose feverish dreams were already populated by dancing carrots, watched in growing horror as his precious pantry dwindled. He tried to protest, a weak groan escaping his throat. "Mmmph… my grass…"

But his well-meaning, yet incredibly selfish, friends just patted his head. "Don't you worry your pretty antlers, dear fellow! We're just keeping it company! Wouldn't want it to get lonely, would we?" chirped Fiona, the fox, delicately plucking a succulent blade of rye.

The final straw came when Barnaby, the notoriously clumsy bear, lumbered in. "Heard you were feeling poorly, old boy!" he boomed, before promptly sitting down on the stag's largest pile of hay, inadvertently compressing it into a rather unappetizing, flat disc. "Just resting my paws for a bit," he mumbled, a few strands of the stag's emergency rations sticking to his whiskers.

The stag, despite his weakness, found a sudden, desperate surge of energy. His eyes, which had been glazed over, suddenly snapped open with a fiery glint. He imagined himself, no longer sick, chasing every single one of them across the meadow, demanding reparations in the form of freshly grown oats and a lifetime supply of acorns.

He let out a weak, but surprisingly menacing, cough. "Alright, you freeloading philanthropists!" he rasped, struggling to lift his head. "I appreciate the company, really. But if you don't step away from my meticulously curated digestive future, I swear, the next time I get well, I'm going to start a rumor that all your favorite berry bushes are infested with invisible, ticklish caterpillars!"

His "friends" froze, mid-chew. The thought of ticklish caterpillars apparently outweighed the deliciousness of free grass. They exchanged nervous glances, slowly backed away from his dwindling stash, and decided that perhaps a quick recovery was more important than a gourmet snack. Barnaby even made a point of trying to fluff up the flattened hay, though he mostly just made it worse. The stag, too weak to truly chase them, still managed a triumphant, albeit exhausted, smirk. His grass was saved, for now.