The past does not become history until you do something different.

From Alfred’s journal

Switch spent an hour this morning burying an acorn in the same bad spot by the drainpipe, the one that floods every spring, and then dug it up and buried it there again. He talked the whole time about last year's flood, how he lost half a cache to it, how he remembers it perfectly. I used to think remembering a thing was the end of it, that once you had the story straight you were out from under it. But he had the story straight and his paws were still in the same mud. The past does not become history until you do something different; until then it is just weather you are standing in. I did not say so, and anyway the ground was soft and he was happy.