Lost Creek Hollow milk bottle

Surrounded by the warmth of his father, Pippin was quick to quiet, his tiny whimper fading to silence. A kiss was planted upon him – unseeing, unknowing of what the gesture truly was, all the babe knew was the comfort it offered, and it was enough to stir the youth to curl against the warmth of his father’s forelimbs. His tiny jaws would suckle upon the short furs along the side of Moredcai’s paws, his tiny form twisting every so often as his milk-bloated belly would round up to the air at times.
 
Life was good – warm, loving. The thoughts that did form in his mind were replaced rather quickly, much in comparison to the memory of a fish. Within moments, Pippin’s tiny form rose and fell in slower breaths as sleep overtook him, and one paw reached out to touch the tip of his father’s own paw – twitching as slumber encompassed him.