guns for hands

Perhaps he wasn't truly old yet. Certainly he was still in his prime, but he felt generally peerless. In recent years, Aesop had encountered few that were in his age group. He knew that he was among the oldest in the pack, if not the oldest, as was often the case. And so he felt he was justified in exaggerating his age a bit. (A lot.)

Spectra's sudden enthusiasm surprised him, but Aesop was not going to spurn help. Den-digging was hard and dirty work, though his chosen location made the going easier. With Spectra's help, he was able to widen the entrance made by the tree and dig into the space it made.

After an hour of work, he shuffled backwards out of the now substantial hole. He sat and chuffed and sneezed, clearing the dirt from his nose. It clung to his thick fur with a strong determination, and though he shook himself out, he couldn't rid himself of much of it. "Spectra, I'm takin' a break," he told her, licking at his paws to try and get rid of some of the dirt gumming up the works.