Nova Peak before i tumble homeward.

The Frostfur pups were growing like little weeds.  In just three short weeks, their eyes had opened to show them their first sights and now even their ears were listening to their first sounds.  Where there once had been four puppy lumps wriggling at Bazi's side, the pups features were beginning to sharpen, making them look like little wolves instead of fat little potatoes.

Well... most of the Frostfurs looked like little wolves instead of fat little potatoes...

His ears were longer and floppier, his toes a little bigger, tail more whip-like and his nose was a bit pointier.  Other than that, Whittier remained just as round and pudgy as ever.  It seemed that his fat was determined to grow with him, with suited him just fine.  He was too young to have any concept of his appearance anyway, plus he was a big fan of being comfortable and being a chubster was basically like carrying an extra pillow around on your belly.  Who could ask for more?

At that moment, Whit was enjoying his belly pillow at the mouth of the den.  Swift was making some ruckus or other inside and at the moment, the chubby Frostfur had no desire to become entangled in it.  He was busy being lazy and well-fed, and there was little ray of sunlight peeking in that was warming his fur to just the right temperature.

Whittier was fat. Fatter than the others, at least, and for some reason, Bazi had seized upon this fact as a source of concern. The other three were starting to look like miniature wolves - sleek and spindly, with adorably oversized features and inquisitive eyes. But Whittier mostly slept - and ate. Bazi blamed the boy entirely for the state of her nips, and couldn't imagine a time when they weren't six meters long and grazing the ground when she walked.

Presently, Whittier was dozing in the sunshine. Swift was making noise in the back, and both Pasha and Allure were testing their noses on one of the many presents that their mother had deposited in the den. Important wolf stuff. But not Whit. Bazi stared at her beanbag of a son for a long moment, then jabbed him roughly in the ribs with the tip of her nose.

Bazi certainly enjoyed poking at him. And it seemed to happen often while he was trying to take a nap. Of course, that state of being encompassed about 50% of his life, so that wasn't really surprising. Still, Whit wasn't growing any less bothered by it each time it happened.

With a grunt, the chubby boy awoke. He turned his head to blink blearily at his mother, his jaws parting in a wide yawn that shook his entire body and sent chills down his spine. Words were still beyond him, but the opening of his ears had begun to alter the sounds of his rumblings into pseudo-words such as mrrrrgh and bawrrrawrrr - both of which he used then to inform his mother that he rather preferred she not poke at him at that moment as he was trying to enjoy the afternoon sunlight and if she could please turn her attention to one of her more energetic and needy children, he would be ever so appreciative.

Whittier responded with sloth-like movements and unimpressed noises. Bazi responded with sounds of her own - a low, warning growl in the vicinity of her son's ear. If he didn't shape up, literally, the wild would consume him. Not many weeks from now, the pups would be taken to a rendezvous site and expected to navigate a microcosm of the world on their own - sometimes without adult supervision. Bazi trusted none of them not to make mistakes, but she was genuinely worried for Whittier's survival. So far, he had shown very little interest in anything except sleeping or eating.

With a quick look at her other children, Bazi got to her feet and made for the exit, seizing Whittier by the scruff of her neck as she went. Outside, the sun warmed the ground in scattered fractals. The Alpha set her little potato down between two raised roots, away from the light, and sat back to see what he would do. If he fell asleep, she would dunk him in the river.

Whit nestled back into his toasty little spot in the sun, convinced that he had made his point to his mother and that she would let him be for the afternoon. Soon enough though, he was shown that he was completely wrong in his thoughts for, quite unceremoniously, he was hoisted up by the scruff of his neck and soon flying over the earth at breakneck speed.

The boy was still as he traveled, partly out of instinct, but also because he was just so shocked at what was happening to him. When he was plopped down onto the earth like bag full of sand, he melted down into the ground beneath him and merely looked about. He had absolutely no idea where he was, but oddly it didn't bother him at all. He was more curious than anything, but also more lazy than curious, and so he just sat there and began to sniff at whatever was in the nearest proximity to him.

Whittier did.. well, not much. He sagged when he dropped him, sniffing noncommittally at his surroundings. His lethargy was infuriating to Bazi, who was barely able to suppress a snarl. "Come on, Whit," she grumbled, placing both front paws on the ground in front of him. She clawed at the dirt to loosen it, and by way of demonstration. Perhaps he had a hidden talent for ferreting things out of the ground? "Dig?' she invited, hopeful.

The ground around him proved not to be very interesting, and thus he turned up his nose to gaze placidly at his mother.  She had a rather unhappy look upon her face, which he found to be rather odd.  Did she smell something icky?  Was she uncomfortable?  Did she need snuggles?  Before he could try to provide for her, she began to scrape at the ground in front of him.  He followed the curve of her arms down to the dirt that she stirred up, his head tilting from one side to the other as he studied the display of cause and effect before him.  Scratch at ground = loose dirt.  Fascinating.

His butt still firmly planted upon the ground, Whit lifted a paw to bat at a clump of dirt she had dislodged.  It rolled a few centimeters away, causing the boy to suddenly bounce to all fours and freeze.  He glanced up at Bazi in wonder before looking back at his new ball, which had slowed to a stop about a foot away from where it had started.  Timidly as though it was about to bite him, he crept towards it and reached out a paw to smack it again.  This time as it went skittering away, Whit hesitated only momentarily before toddled after it with a wriggling tail so that he could roll it again.  It was probably the slowest game of chase ever played by his kind, but at least he wasn't just laying there anymore.

It wasn't quite what she had hoped for, but anything that got Whittier moving was a bonus. He swatted at a ball of hardened dirt, stared after it, and followed. As far as aerobic exercise went, it was akin to a woman boasting of taking the stairs at work whilst scoffing a tub of Ben & Jerry's.

Beggars can't be choosers.

Bazi followed Whittier's progress, occasionally batting his temporary toy a little further out of reach - just to give him that extra little push. She worried for his future; the pounds stayed firmly attached, and he showed no signs of any hidden talents that might benefit the pack. Despite knowing that it would only worsen the problem, she coddled him; he was the last to be weaned and the first to run to mother when the going got tough.

Though it could hardly be considered exercise, Whit managed to do about six or seven throws and chases with the help of his mother before he plopped down onto his pudgy butt and turned back to Bazi, panting like crazy through a wide grin. His little heart was pounding as though he'd just run a half marathon, and even his belly was a little queasy as though he'd had a bowl full of spaghetti before he ran it.

But still, Whit was a happy little potato. Picking himself up again, he toddled over to Bazi and smashed his head against her toes with a pleasant whine. He parted his jaws then and began to gum at her paw - his own personal way of informing her that he was hungry and ready for more cuddles.

There is probably a brand of maternal instinct that forces you to assess each child on their own terms and celebrate their victories without comparing them to anyone else's.  In Bazi's case, it certainly wasn't learned behaviour; she would never make the logical decision to reward Great Effort or mollycoddle the weak. But Whittier was different. Whittier was her baby. Where the other three were rewarded for excellence, her plumpest offspring was showered with love for doing not very much at all - especially during these private moments away from the pack, when the alpha mother only had her own judgmental feelings to overcome.

When he returned from his little romp around, Bazi slumped obediently to her side. It was beyond time the pups were weaned, but she didn't care; Whittier could feed until he was four years old if he wanted to.

His toe-gnawing seemed to do the trick as soon enough, Bazi laid down beside him and gave up the nips. Greedily, Whittier tucked on in for a meal he was likely getting too old to have. The problem really wasn't that the boy didn't like meat - he liked it just fine. The problem was he liked all forms of sustenance, meat and milk alike. It would be up to his parents to cut him off from Bazi's exhausted milk duds, unless his siblings took up bullying him for doing something so baby-ish as continuing to nurse well into his adolescence. All of those eventualities seemed far off as Whittier drank up his fill, snuggled as closely to his mother's side as he was physically able, and drifted off to sleep.