In the beginning, all was warm.

Huddled protectively in the uterus, pups are not conscious . . . there is no knowledge of where they are, or what they are, only a vague sense of being cradled in silky fluid warmth, held firm and secure, rocked into blissful nothingness by the swing of their mother’s hips. He did not know who he was—that he was even “he”—and it wasn’t until his tiny world started collapsing upon itself that his wits woke up and he struggled for all he was worth. The smooth walls around him clenching tight, jostling him every which way. He felt the bump and brush of other wiggling bodies—other paws—other muzzles—and so he writhed against them too. He must be free! He must win! He must push, and push, and—!

Compression, squeezing him. Every inch of him. Pain! This was awful! He hated this! Why was this happening to him? What had he done?

All at once the flesh that gloved him set him free—and the abrupt absence of his only world and the slicing shock of cold that stung him had his tiny lungs heaving with the need to scream. Kisses bathed his shivering round frame. Mucus was cleaned out of his little muzzle. Air rushed into his mouth, inflated his chest, and he unleashed a tirade of furious high-pitched keens that probably carried no more than a few feet before the forest swallowed them. Something scooted him closer to a great expanse of lovely-smelling fur . . . beautiful calming heat . . . instinct bid him to latch onto the first thing that bumped his snout, and he immediately started to suckle, delicious warmth and serenity washing over him until he drifted off into a peaceful slumber.