Blackfeather Woods It's not nice to stare, really

No.
He would not come. He did not like the tongue that swept over him, cleaning him. He recognised her actions as a prelude that was the torture of bath, and he did not approach. He would escape. He made no movement, his gaze stayed on her, but after a moment of tense motionless silence, he moved, no toward her but toward the entrance, going as fast as his little legs would carry him, wanting to see what resided out there, in the world that was not the tiny one he had known for much of his life. He would have no bath.