Ksura dangled from a branch, eyes closed, limbs hanging, the only sign of life the gentle sway of his body and occasional twitch from a foot. He gripped the branch in his mouth- it was the perfect branch, really, and would make a perfect stick. It was about as thick as his own forelimb, and only had a few offshoots.

His hold didn’t falter even when he stirred, and opened his eyes. He could see only up- the trunk of the lodgepole pine reached toward heavens painted gold in the advent of morning. Before he had the time to question why it was he’d seemingly just awakened, clinging to a branch, he registered what he was doing and what needed to be done.

It was time to sever the stick from its prison.

He began to thrash about wildly, at times swinging his hips in a circular motion so that his teeth could saw into the wood. When his paws touched the trunk, he braced them and began to tug, each yank accented by a high pitched bark. When he went back to alligator-rolling he switched to a furious, ullulating growl that sounded almost like he was chewing the branch out, while chewing it off.

He felt the wood crackle, tasted the resin in his mouth and snorted when pine nettles fell onto his nose from
Above, re-igniting his feverish task. He felt the wood begin to splinter and felt himself drop at least a couple inches. First one crack, then another. He braced his paws and began to bounce, wrenching the branch to and fro until with a reluctant creak, down came the bough, Ksura and all.