Redhawk Caldera the ballad of mr. steak

His dim, infant mind thought that as long as he moved forward, he'd bump into something familiar and likely what he was after. Such had been the way since he'd been born (so long ago). He never had to move far, or much at all, before a nipple was poking him in the nose or in the eye, and then it was rather easy for his lips to get a hold of it (not to mention that devilish little natal tooth of his).

Not so this time. He doggedly hauled himself the immense distance of, say, the length of his own body twice, and found nothing. Now he was certain something was wrong. By some stroke of luck or genius, he decided to turn. But, he did not turn far enough, and so now was on a new adventure toward the wall of the den. This time he was sure his method would pay off.