I know there’s a beaver in the woods where I walk my dog. The paths where I walk are filled with trees with old teeth marks and scars in them and old stumps, pointed at the top like a spear. Then last year, I found a tree with fresh wood shavings around its base; teeth marks in its trunk. For a week, I returned to the tree every morning and found more shavings, more cuts in the trunk. Finally, one morning, the tree was on its side. Then the morning after that, it had been dragged towards the river. Then the next day it was gone.

But I have never seen a beaver. I have never seen their house either, although I am constantly searching for it.