Heron Lake Plateau the heart

It was the low vibration of Quixote’s voice and the warmth of his breath rustling through Kite’s fur that clued her into his location. Laboriously, she turned herself, moving one wildly trembling limb at a time. Tiny grunts and huffs of exertion escaped her blindly seeking muzzle as she moved toward him, using faulty echolocation to make her way there; she peeped, but the sound was rhythmic and almost questioning. It probably would’ve worked better if her ears worked better, but whatever. Up until this point in her life, everybody sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher, anyway.

When Kite finally reached her father’s foot, she tried to clamber atop it, but the erratic jittering of her limbs wouldn’t quit. With no small amount of effort, she hooked her little elbows over the broad span of his toes and hugged his ankle with her whole body until only the tip of her tail continued to quiver as she worked to keep her balance. Finally! A soft, relieved sigh gusted from her tiny lungs as even her tailtip ceased its trembling, and she fell asleep there on Quixote’s paw, like a furry white bracelet that didn’t quite fit the whole way around his sturdy wrist.