Bearclaw Valley When bumblebees find out what we call them, there's gonna be hell to pay

The songbird seemed to take no notice of his greeting. Lucas held as still as he could for a moment, awaiting a reaction, but it soon proved agonizing to the wiggly pup. Without warning he broke into a run, charging straight at the bird and squealing with laughter as it fluttered away. Tail beating behind him, the rotund pup galloped after it for several steps and then shouted, "hi!" at the retreating tail feathers.

A shock ran through him as another voice returned his greeting. He spun around, gut and fat legs jiggling, and fixed his wide eyes on Indra. With a huge smile, the cub bounded over to his aunt, gathered his fat form under him and leaped up against her chest, pedaling eager paws and giggling. Somewhere in Lucasland, the place in his head where his personal rhythm originated, he was sprouting wings and flying like a bird. No amount of hoping for it gave him any lift, though; his chubby body could hardly hop more than a few inches off the ground without a great effort.

But he heaved his fat bottom up in little leaps regardless, bolstered greatly by his love and excitement, and began to yip, "hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hihihihihi!"