The forest flies beneath me in a blur, a discordant mass of greens and greys and browns. My paws caress its ever-changing hide before I am off, further and faster than before. Waxy green fingers brush across my sable body, raking its nails underneath my blind eye – I understand its envy. What is life worth, after hundreds of years, if you could never explore the twisting labyrinths of the caves or scale the daunting peaks of mountains? I laugh, reveling as the wind courses through my plush fur and a rough tongue rasps across my face – wait, what?

A tiny squeak announces my return to the waking world and I blink blearily up at Mother. She continues grooming me, unrepentant for disrupting my slumber. I give her a [totally indignant] yawn, mumbling "If I goed outside I wouldas got in trouble…" before patiently suffering through the rest of my bath in a groggy stupor. Only when Mother rolls to her side do I manage to lift the shroud, rising with the biggest, bestest stretch I could muster, toddling over to her and silently accepting a teat. I always look forward to my meals, not just for the sustenance in my belly (really, who wouldn’t look forward to that?), but to hear the stories Mother tells. I do not know much of the world but that which I hear through her tales, and through her I imagine the world beyond our den rich with beauty and danger.

Today though, it seems she has a different story in mind. A food bearing stranger, a "he". I try picturing myself suckling from a "he" like I do from my mother – it is not an easy image to conjure. Before I can ask her about it, Mother has already carried on. I back away from her belly, licking my lips as she finds her feet and pads over to the entrance. "But Mommy, you’re nice." I state as I plod after her, ducking between her front legs to peer out curiously for this mystery-male. "Why wouldn’t he be nice too?"