The Camping Trip p.7
Judy had never seen such a pathetic gaggle of mammals gathered around the campfire, bruised and shivering and recounting their various traumas. Spiders. Leeches. Crotch shots. Public radio. Her guilt grew as the telling continued.
“Listen, guys, maybe we should just pack up and head back to Zootopia.”
“No!”
They looked as one to Fru Fru, surprised by the shout. The shrew huffed and hopped from her log seat, clambering up Finnick’s van to stand atop it and look down at them all. “We are not being beaten by a dumb forest! We are ZPD officers! Street-tough thugs! Mafia heiresses!”
“Yeah—wait,” started Clawhauser. “What was that last one?”
Fru Fru continued her squeaky, rousing speech. “We are tough, vigilant, resourceful! We are going to eat s’mores, tell campfire stories, and not worry about one more—”
A hawk flew down, grabbed the shrew in its talons, and flew off.