Fox's Glade five six seven eight

Oh, he stank! The boy's tail had not left his rump since the incident, and it was with tears in his eyes that the chubby four-month-old ran for the edge of the territory, horribly embarrassed and shamed. He had passed over it and kept going, the chubby cub having to stop repeatedly to gasp for breath, before dissolving into a quivering mess a short distance from the border, wallowing in self-pity. How cruel was the world, to hurt him in this way. And even though it was himself who had put the distance between himself and his family, he was quickly convinced that they hated him because of his horrid, horrid smell. They hated him! They wanted him to stay away! 

Unbeknownst to him, his scent was a beacon, signalling some foolish or young creature that had gotten in the way of a skunk. He never spared much energy towards careful thought, and now was no different, as he sniffled sadly without a thought to the outside world.