Sun Mote Copse Don't tell me what the poets are doin'

Meerkat happily lost herself in the variety of sensations, enjoying them all immensely. There was one in particular that stood out more than the others, even the deeply pleasant stroking of her back. Every now and again, a puff of warm air washed over her, which she liked for its own sake. But what was most compelling was the smell of it. There was the scent of blood, meat and other organic odors, of course, though there was so much more to it than that. Although the baby was too young to process any of it consciously, she detected bits and bobs of information encoded in the smells, telling her of her Neema's age, sex and current condition.

There was no possible way for Meerkat to grasp the concept of pregnancy, nor make sense of the new life growing invisibly in Niamh's belly even now. But some base, instinctual part of her brain registered this fact, a signature coded into her Neema's scent. Unaware of why, exactly, she was doing it, Meerkat mewled in joyful approval, as if gladdened by this news and excited at the prospect of potential playmates.