Sun Mote Copse And you will surely be the death of me

Cold. Cold, sticky, alone. The first pup, pushed from the womb that sheltered her and her siblings, whimpered in her first breath.

Not alone: a gentle tongue licked her damp body. Tiny limbs reached out blindly. She wormed her way towards the warmth and the rich milk, unaware of her mother’s pain. Others joined her in time, her siblings, and she was content.

Her dark blonde fur would someday lighten to cream and gold; her eyes, from a pup’s blue to warm brown. But for the moment, the pup that would be called Nagamo nursed blind and deaf at her mother’s side.