Peter Prairie Dog knew rain was coming, and no one would believe him. He stood at his burrow's mouth, nose lifted, whiskers twitching at the wet smell in the wind. "Storm by noon," he called to the neighbors. They walked past without turning their heads. Peter's chest ached. Every groundhog got a crowd and a headline. Peter got dirt in his eyes and empty ground. He wanted just one thing: to prove a prairie dog could forecast the weather better than any groundhog alive. The problem was simple. Peter lived low. His burrow sat flat against the earth, its rounded entrance no taller than a stone. When he made a prediction, he made it into the grass. No one above could see him. No one below cared. He needed height. He needed a place where people already looked. So Peter marched toward the grand hall in the center of town. Its tall windows shone. Its clock tower rose above every roof. Folks gathered on its wide stone steps each morning to hear the day's news. If Peter stood there, they would have to see him. Halfway across the open ground, a familiar shape blocked his path. The groundhog wore his yellow rain jacket and hard hat, grinning as always. He held an umbrella upside down, catching pretend rain. "Peter!" the groundhog said. "Going somewhere fancy?" Peter had watched this groundhog forecast for years. Crowds cheered when he popped up. They ignored Peter completely. Peter's paws tightened. "I'm going to the steps," Peter said. "To make my forecast where people can see me." The groundhog laughed and spun his umbrella. "Those steps are steep. Little legs like yours?" He wasn't cruel, just silly. But the words landed hard. Peter did not argue. He kept walking. The groundhog trailed behind, humming. The steps were tall and wide, made for people, not prairie dogs. Peter climbed. One step. Two. His legs burned. The stone was cold under his paws. Above him, morning crowds began to gather at the doors, waiting for the daily news. At the top step, Peter turned to face them. He stood on his hind legs, tall as he could stretch. The wind pushed at his fur. "Rain by noon!" he shouted. "Take your umbrellas!" A few heads turned. Someone pointed. "Look, a prairie dog on the hall steps." More faces followed. For the first time, the crowd looked at Peter, not past him. He had done it. He had found his high, visible spot. His words reached real ears. Then the doors behind him opened. A stern official in a dark coat stepped out and frowned down at the small animal on the top step. "You can't stand here," the official said. "These steps are for town business. Move along." The crowd waited. The groundhog watched from below, umbrella still spinning. Peter had his spot at last. Now someone with real power wanted him gone.