Sawtooth Spire i am not in control of my extremities

His attention was square on the beetle as it danced across the den floor, his constant pawing disorienting it to the point where it knew not which way to run and now had begun to scamper in whichever direction it faced after being jarred by the fox's foot. But the third born's focus was interrupted when his father's soft woof sounded from the den entrance. He looked toward it, paw still hanging in the air. The beetle escaped then, and truthfully had been forgotten. Before him was a far more interesting object: the big red thing that his mother never let come close.

For a few moments he did not but stare at this new face, placing his paw back on the ground. He had caught glimpses of it before, and had come to know the scent, but it was right there now. His tail, still yet short and thin as it was, lifted into the air and waved back and forth. He took a step toward red thing, his blue eyes bright with curiosity. Then he took another, slowly closing the gap between them. He felt no fear, no concern, as if he knew by instinct that there was no danger here despite their mother's efforts to keep the two separated.