Redhawk Caldera Drive-thru

I'm choosing to ignore the game's forecast and pretending it's in the 70s like it's gonna be here today! :D

It was just past ten in the morning (not that Peregrine could tell time) and all of the den's residents were well-fed and fast asleep, save for the proud dad himself and one of the pups. He watched as Hamburglar (@Ferret) squirmed against his mother, refusing to settle. Not wanting the pup to disturb her, the Alpha male stood and closed his jaws around the pup's sandy midriff. He lifted him, then looked around for somewhere safe to deposit him, when the bright blue skies of the outdoors drew his eye.

He glanced between the doorway and the sleeping Fox half a dozen times before stepping into the threshold, standing halfway in and halfway out of the den. His eye squinted against the morning glare, though at least he didn't have to worry about Hamburglar going blind (since he already was!). An unseasonably warm breeze ruffled the long roach hairs at the base of his neck even as the March sun warmed his dark face. Hopefully his son would also feel and enjoy these sensations.

I never use the game forecast LOL

Code name Troublepaws protested when he was snatched up, squirming and worming and wriggling and squawking. If he could have, he would planted his little canine right in his father's lip, but he simply could not reach anything with his not-so-mighty jaws. So he continued to writhe until his eyes, from behind his sealed lids, were met with a brightness he had never known, and until the spring breeze whisked through his fur and touched his skin. He stopped.

His folded ears quivered and his nose twitched as he tried to make sense of these new things. It felt different. He could, in a way, feel the expanse of the world around him, so different from the dark confines of the den. It even smelled different. He could not yet discern all the individual scents for they meant nothing to him, but he could tell that they were separate from the ones he did know.

He could not see, but his head turned side to side as if he could, and his paws kicked as if swimming in water. What was this strange place! He wanted to know.

He closed his own eyes to make his experience more similar to the pup's, becoming more aware of the feeling of the breeze tickling his face, the warm fingers of the sun on the crown of his head, the scents winding into his nose that hinted strongly at the arrival of spring proper. What would Hamburglar make of any of these things? How would his tiny, limited mind even process the sensory input at all?

After a while, his eyes popped open and Peregrine gently lowered his head to settle Hamburglar between his front paws. "Don't try anything funny," the father warned, despite the fact that the pup could neither hear nor understand him. In lieu of his gentle teeth cradling the little guy, he passed his tongue up and over his back, a signal that he was still there, keeping the puppy warm and safe.

Oooo, the ground. It was a different ground. It was cold and wet, but before he could acquainted with it, his father swiped his tongue across his back. He abruptly lifted his head with a squeak, in lieu of being able to do much else, before returning his attention to the new ground. His nose bobbed and poked at the bits of winter that was stilling hanging in there, despite the march of spring. Slowly, he started to crawl forward, and now this his nose had a turn at inspecting the stuff his tongue took its chance. He licked and nip-gummed at the snow, sneezing as a small ice crystal tickled the inside of a nostril.

Of course, the pup managed to find one of those little leftover clumps of snow, the ones that hung around inexplicably until mid-May no matter how far the temperature rose (and they really were unseasonably temperate today). They had always perplexed Peregrine. How on earth did they manage to defy nature's laws? Maybe Hamburglar would find out, since he seemed intent on investigating the defiant little ice crystals.

He knew he should get the pup away from the source of such cold and wet, yet Peregrine let him have his fun, at least for a few minutes. How could he deny his firstborn the pleasure of his first snow cone, after all?

I usually have a patch of snow on my front lawn that overstays its welcome! lol

Cold earth drew warmth from the body quickly, and cold, damp snow was even more proficient at it. Though the warmth of the sun was upon his back (and how glorious that felt!), and he was still quite interested in all the new stuff out here, his wee dicky belly was getting cold. Perhaps if he could hoist himself to his paws it would be better, but though his legs did try, testing to see if they could do anything new, today was not the day for him to walk.

So, the bandit turned and crawled back to the nearest source of warmth - his father's big ol' paw. His snout found a toe, and without warning, his mouth decided to see what that was all about and he latched on. Mostly with gums, but his single little canine had no qualms about getting in on the action as with some sort of rrr sound he gnawed at his father.

We'll blame it on the sun and fresh air energizing him.

Fox had mentioned their eldest's inexplicable tooth and Peregrine had pitied her poor nips. Now he knew her pain all the better, as Hamburglar tired of the patch of snow and squirmed back toward his paw. "Damn, son," the Alpha muttered as the solitary fang sank deep into the webbing between his toes. He had to resist the impulse to fling the puppy away. "Maybe I should call you Snaggletooth instead. That hurts, you little motherfucker."

He bent his head down and latched his jaws around the pup's midriff again, lifting and wincing as the tooth tugged free. He swung around to face the den's doorway, then set Hamburglar down again. He gave the pup's bottom a nudge, hoping he would scoot forward, back toward safety. "You're grounded," Peregrine muttered entirely playfully, tail twitching as he loomed over the sandy boy.

If only the little bandit's ears were open to the world, he might have made his father regret the words his tongue made. But alas, he could hear nothing significant. He perceived sounds as an inexplicable resonance, a sort of dull twang and hum of things that perhaps could be likened to what was heard through ear plugs. Nothing out of the ordinary and nothing worth his attention.

He continued to mouth the foot, until his father scooped him up again. Code name Troublepaws made an indignant squawk, and soon found himself grounded, literally, but this time he was back within the confines of the den. He huffed, swinging his muzzle around (sort of, he was terribly inflexible as a potato) in what maybe could be called a snap as Peregrine nudged him. But as if sensing that there was no fighting the command of this bigger being, he crawled forward further into the den. Except he crawled slowly. So, so, soooo slowly.

His son moved more slowly than a geriatric turtle, yet Peregrine had nothing but patience. His eyes remained fixed on the tiny puppy's back as he slugged forth. This time around, he wasn't obsessed about naming them (aside from the nicknames for reference), though he caught himself wondering about Hamburglar's eventual moniker. With that mask, was Raccoon (or maybe just Coon) inevitable? Wasn't that the name of one of Fox's relatives? His head tilted, though Peregrine couldn't remember.

Anyway, the fur color was all wrong. Everyone knew raccoon (why is spellcheck telling me raccoons isn't a word?) were gray with black markings. But the pup was beige. And trash pandas didn't have blocks stockings, did they? The father squinted thoughtfully, eyes still following Hamburglar. He had gone about one inch. His body had extended somewhat, squishy bits of puppy fat stretched out into a less round, more cylindrical shape.

"You remind me of a weasel," he murmured prophetically, then shook the thought from his head and stepped over the pup and into the den. He peered at him a moment longer, then turned his back on Hamburglar and sat, letting his tail fall over the pudgy whelp.

Though he wanted nothing to do with returning the den at this time, he was inexplicably irritated that his progress (however slow) was baffled by the sudden presence of the great mass of fur that was his father's tail. The boy did his best to plow through the fluff, but it tickled his nose and invaded his mouth, and soon his paws were working to push it away from his face rather than hauling his butt forward. By some fluke, he discovered he could free himself of the offending tail by changing direction, and soon he was on his way, this time a bit quicker, until he bumped into his father's haunch.

The boy let out a sigh as his legs sprawled out to either side, lending him the appearance of roadkill. He was going to go no further if he had to work so hard to do it.

Hamburglar battled with his tail for a few minutes before coming to rest beside his haunch, flopping over like a dead thing. "Really? That's it?" Peregrine teased the deaf youngster. "If you don't get up, I'm going to fart on your head," he warned, eyes narrowing as he waited for any sign of movement. The sandy boy remained lying there, motionless save for the rise and fall of his little rib cage. "Okay then, you can't say I didn't warn you."

Probably most dads would joke about something like this but not actually go through with it. But he was Peregrine Redhawk. He swept to his feet, then hover-crouched over Hamburglar as if he was about to take a dump on the unsuspecting whelp. Fortunately, nothing escaped him except for a tiny puff of air and an accompanying squeak. Only time (and Hamburglar) would be able to tell if it came with any particular odor as well.

Sometimes it was a blessing not to be able to see or hear, and in this moment it would have been a blessing not to be able to smell either. His father's fart did smell, and it engulfed his poor nose so thoroughly that he let out a strangled squawk in protest. His sense of smell was not yet so developed that he could pick apart the gas cloud and detect the many scents that comprised it - all he could smell was nauseating stench. It quite literally stole his breath; he required oxygen, not methane.

It perhaps had the intended effect though. It spurred the little bandit's legs into action, and soon he was speed-crawling down the den, clumsily barrelling toward his mother and what he perceived as safety. Puppy farts had nothing on his father, but then, there was a rather distinct size and capacity difference there.

If the pup's indignant squeak was any indication, it was a stinker. Peregrine's nose wrinkled in sympathy even before the smell hit him. "Wow, small but mighty," he observed with a huffed laugh, watching in amusement as little Hamburglar scurried toward his mother.

"Man, you need a bath after that. C'mere," the Alpha rumbled, stepping forward and dropping into a sphinx-like position, legs outstretched on either side of the squirming bandit. Stretching out his neck, he gently tugged the tyke closer to his chest and began to run his tongue up and over him in a warm and hopefully soothing grooming sesh.

The boy fussed and struggled, squirming around between his father's paws as Peregrine groomed him. But though he protested, he was just a pup and he was innately inclined to be lulled by the rhythmic tongue action. Soon his squeaks and whirring, and whatever other displeased noises he could make, tapered off into a soft murmur as he drifted to sleep. Now clean, and breathing fresh air, he was content.

After his glorious tongue bath, Ferret joined the rest of his brothers in sweet slumber. Peregrine gave his head a final peck, then stood and surveyed Fox and the pups for a moment before gliding out of the den. He would go fetch some fresh meat to be ready and waiting when she and the boys woke.