Redhawk Caldera What do you call a French dog that loves potatoes?

The first week of life flew on by and the potatoes cultivated by Towhee couldn't do much aside from sleep a lot, or eat every few hours. He was no different — hungry like the others, oblivious to everything outside of the hobbit hole. 

The warm body of his mother was the greatest comfort. Having stuffed himself with milk until his belly was an orb of loud sloshing and obnoxious gurgles, he was ready for another nap; not much of a to-do list, but what can you do. It would be a while yet before those eyes opened or awareness bestowed understanding to his bodily limits.

The boy rolled haphazardly from beside Towhee and in to the rest of his siblings, murmuring little squeaks and squeals along the way. The bowling ball of his stomach hit one of them in the face, while his sprawling legs kicked out and thrust in to the others. 

As he came to a sudden rest he felt something squish against his bum — someone's wet nose — and when he squealed at the feeling, out of his bum came a wet toot.