Little black animal, radio-array ears sitting too large on either side of her big-eyed head, upper body still all a-fuzz with kitteny down, lower legs and feet getting the gloss and sleekness of guard hairs: she doesn't quite match. Running, her hind feet seem all but about to overtake her forefeet, apt to send her bouncing off the chairlegs like a rubberband in an animated short. Walking, she steps with a mix of care and glee, jerky like a kid in rubber boots and pajamas, let out to splash in the puddles of a wet morning after a stormy night. Everything must be glistening for her, breaking the light in zany ways, trailing motes and stars.
No wonder she flops down and slides so readily into fur-smelling sleep. But even then, the claws push out of their slots and draw back in, little muscles along her boney spine twitch and strain. I can see down between the hairs to the purplish skin of her temples, but no farther in, and I have to confess mystification: what could such a tiny brain only nine weeks old be dreaming?
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