My Hairy Best friend

Daisy hadn’t meant to find Bigfoot.

She’d only gone out to the woods to look for the good pinecones—the big, fat ones her teacher said were “excellent for crafts” but her mom said were “excellent for bugs.” Daisy had a secret basket under her bed where she kept the best ones, along with rocks shaped like potato chips and one really good stick that looked like a wizard staff.

That’s when she heard it: the sneeze.

It wasn’t a polite little “ah-choo.” It was a cannon-blast-sneeze, like someone had tried to blow the entire forest off its foundations. Birds exploded from the trees. A raccoon ran past Daisy holding its ears.

She dropped her basket and yelled, “Bless you!”

From the shadows, something enormous froze. Then a voice, low and rumbly, said, “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”

And out stepped the monster.

Only Daisy didn’t think he looked like a monster. Sure, he was the size of a minivan. Sure, his hair was so shaggy he could have been wearing twelve rugs. Sure, his feet were…well, bigger than Daisy’s whole body. But his eyes were nervous, and his hands were fidgety, and his nose was still red from the sneeze.

“Hi,” Daisy said. “I’m Daisy. Are you…Bigfoot?”

The creature winced. “I prefer Carl.”

From that day on, Daisy and Carl were inseparable.

Not that anyone believed her.

When Daisy marched into the kitchen to announce she had a new best friend, her mom didn’t even look up from the laundry. “That’s nice, sweetie.”

“His name is Carl, and he’s this big,” Daisy said, stretching her arms as wide as possible.

Her dad chuckled. “Imaginary friends get bigger every year, huh?”

Daisy scowled. “He’s not imaginary. He’s just…fluffy.”

“Uh-huh.”

But Carl wasn’t imaginary. He met Daisy every day after school in the woods, ducking behind trees the size of toothpicks compared to him. He had a habit of trying to “blend in,” which meant crouching behind a bush while approximately nine feet of hair stuck out in every direction.

“Carl, I can still see you,” Daisy said.

“No you can’t,” Carl whispered loudly. “I am one with the shrub.”

Their first adventure was the Pinecone Heist.

Carl loved pinecones almost as much as Daisy. But while Daisy collected them for crafts, Carl collected them like trophies.

“These are nature’s footballs,” he said, tossing one fifty feet in the air and catching it with his teeth.

“Those are gross,” Daisy said. “They’ve got ants.”

Carl spat the pinecone out and apologized to the ants.

Together, they built the Great Pinecone Tower of Daisyville: a wobbly, fifteen-foot-tall stack of cones that leaned like a drunk giraffe. Daisy was so proud she made Carl pose next to it while she drew a picture in her notebook.

Unfortunately, the tower collapsed directly onto the hiking trail, where three joggers immediately screamed, “BIGFOOT!” and ran for their lives.

Carl panicked. “Do I look scary?”

“Yes,” Daisy said. “But in a cute way.”

They rebuilt the tower deeper in the woods, where only squirrels could admire it. The squirrels gave it five stars.

One Friday, Daisy brought marshmallows. “Camping snack,” she explained.

Carl had never had one. He squished the first between his fingers until it oozed like toothpaste. He ate the second whole, paper bag included.

By the fifth marshmallow, Carl’s eyes glazed over. He was in sugar bliss.

“Carl, you’re drooling,” Daisy said.

“I am ascending,” Carl mumbled, lying on his back with twenty wrappers stuck to his fur.

They decided to roast the rest over Daisy’s “borrowed” lighter (don’t tell Dad). Unfortunately, Carl’s fur caught fire. Fortunately, Carl just rolled around until the fire went out, leaving him smelling like a giant toasted s’more.

The bad news? The smoke drew in a park ranger.

“What in tarnation—” the ranger started, before seeing Carl. His jaw dropped. His whistle fell out of his mouth.

Carl froze. Daisy thought fast.

“That’s my Uncle Larry,” she said. “He…does CrossFit.”

The ranger squinted. Carl flexed, which looked less like CrossFit and more like a yeti trying to pop bubble wrap.

“Uh-huh,” the ranger said slowly. “Well, tell Uncle Larry to shave once in a while.”

Crisis averted. Mostly.

That night, Daisy tried again to tell her parents.

“Carl’s real! He plays hopscotch! He eats marshmallows like a vacuum cleaner!”

Her mom smiled distractedly. “That’s nice, honey.”

Her dad added, “Imaginary friends are good for creativity.”

Daisy stomped her foot. “He’s not imaginary! He’s Carl!”

Carl, who was crouched outside the window trying to eavesdrop, whispered, “Should I wave?”

“NO!” Daisy hissed.

Parents never get it.

Everything went downhill the day Carl followed Daisy into town.

He was careful at first—hiding behind delivery trucks, ducking into alleys—but nine feet of fur is hard to miss.

At the ice cream stand, Daisy ordered a cone. Carl whispered, “Get me twelve.”

When the vendor saw the enormous shadow looming behind Daisy, he screamed, “BIGFOOT!”

In less than five minutes, half the town was in chaos. Moms grabbed their kids. Teenagers took blurry photos. Conspiracy nuts set up tripods. Someone shouted, “Call Animal Control!”

Carl panicked, shoving three entire ice creams in his mouth at once. “I’m not dangerous! I just like sprinkles!”

“RUN!” the crowd shrieked.

Daisy grabbed his hand. “Quick—back to the woods!”

They bolted, leaving a trail of melting chocolate chip and terrified gossip behind them.

By the time they reached the tree line, a mob had formed with cameras, nets, and—because this was Daisy’s town—one guy wielding a pool noodle like a sword.

Carl tripped over his own foot and faceplanted in the dirt. The crowd roared.

Thinking fast, Daisy pulled a pink, glittery marker from her backpack, some blue scented glue and a blank page from her sketch book. She hurriedly scribbled “NOT BIGFOOT” and glued it, rather messily, to Carl's big, hairy chest.

He stood up proudly, dirt in his teeth. “See? Not Bigfoot.”

The mob squinted. “Oh. Okay.”

Someone coughed. “Guess it was just a bear.”

Everyone wandered off, muttering.

Carl blinked. “That actually worked?”

“People are dumb,” Daisy said.

“Thank goodness,” Carl sighed, licking melted ice cream off his fur.

Life went back to normal—well, Daisy-and-Carl normal.

They built forts out of fallen branches. They played tag with confused deer. They held burping contests that registered on seismographs.

Sure, Daisy’s parents still thought Carl was imaginary. Sure, the town still jumped at shadows. But Daisy didn’t care. She had a best friend who was bigger than life, hairier than a bear, and better at hopscotch than anyone she knew.

One afternoon, as the sun slanted through the trees, Carl looked down at her and said, “You don’t think I’m scary?”

Daisy shook her head. “You’re just Carl.”

He smiled, all teeth and crumbs. “Good. Because you’re just Daisy. And you’re my favorite human.”

“Even better than marshmallows?” she teased.

Carl thought about it. “…Tie.”

And they laughed until the forest echoed.