A wombat, American readers will learn, is an adorable round creature that looks something like a small, pointy-eared bear and likes to sleep. It also has enormous claws, a prodigious appetite, and an unshakable determination to get what it wants. This imperturbable specimen keeps a diary that keenly describes her daily excitements: “Monday. Morning: Slept. Afternoon: Slept. Evening: Ate grass. Scratched. Night: Ate grass. Slept.” When new neighbors move in and prove to be an excellent source of carrots, the diary’s list expands to reveal the lengths this wombat will go (“Chewed hole in door”) to ensure a steady stream of the treat. Whatley’s acrylic vignettes, arranged sequentially across the spreads, are set against a generous white background and provide the perfect counterpoint to French’s deadpan narration. The tortured outline of a garbage can says it all when paired with, “Banged on large metal object till carrots appeared.” The level of irony involved requires sophisticated readers, but they will laugh out loud at the wombat’s antics—and breathe sighs of relief that she’s not their neighbor. (Picture book. 5-7)
