Valley of Gold Hear Santa Monica, I swear it's calling me

She remembered this place.

It'd been home once, or something like it. This valley of gilded grass, this endless golden sea that reminded her so of her mama. Foxglove missed her more than she could admit, even to herself; to admit it would be to admit that she'd been wrong to leave, and she could never do that. She could never go back.

It wasn't that she didn't love her family, she thought, trailing through the grass with her nose low to the ground and her tail high. But this? The sight of the sun rising over the vast expanse of lands unexplored, the promise of what the horizon held beyond the boundaries of the familiar — oh, she wouldn't trade this for anything.