Heron Lake Plateau could you el a little less oh el.

Having a deaf sitter was probably the best thing for this particular litter. While Fenn seemed generally well-behaved, Fig was far less content with... well, contentment. He preferred being vocal, and squirming--two things that likely made his papa Fidget quite proud. Or miserable. IDK.

At that moment, Fig was not in the least bit content. Being vocal, however, seemed to be failing him. Which isn't to say he gave up on it, just that he was determined and adaptable enough to employ his second talent in an effort to get some damn attention for himself. It took him a solid quarter of an hour to finally move onto phase two, but when he did, it was still with just as much shrieking as before. Just with the added bonus of the squirming.

With any luck, Fenn wasn't near him when he made his break for it. Even if she was, Fig would've trampled her on his way to the holy land (aka boob town, where he mistakenly thought he could get a decent meal). As usual, he didn't pay much attention to which direction he went. It usually didn't matter. Moving in any direction eventually triggered one of the big things to grab him and place him back at his dinner plate.

His trajectory that afternoon seemed fairly promising as after a few minutes of peddling his little legs on the floor of the den, he felt himself bumping right into Towhee's muzzle. With obnoxious determination, the boy gave a grumpy little war cry and attempt to vault himself directly on top of it, as though boarding an elevator. While screaming. God, that would be so weird to be in an elevator and then someone comes in, incessantly screaming bloody murder.