Not much was permanent at his young age. The child slept, ate, shit, and slept. The child wasn't aware of much more, aside from the warmth coming and going, being snuffled at, and the food laying still long enough for him to sniff and feel his way towards it. It was a simple life, one he enjoyed greatly, or as much as he could for being so young. His home of familiar smells, sensations and dull sounds was enough to lull him into a sleep, even when he wasn't being warmed by the only thing that gave him all he needed.

When he woke, however, he knew something was wrong. When he sniffed, he could not smell the warmth. He could not smell food, excrement, dirt, or anything. He was cold, terribly so, and while his brain was too little to feel scared, he was extremely uncomfortable. The horrible ground beneath him gave way as he squirmed, all wrong and not at all what he was used to. All at once, it was too much, and he began to shriek, because that was all he could do.

He was growing weak, however. His thin fur was mostly just for show, barely even long enough to protect his pink skin from the sun.