Into the Ether

The sudden shock of air that set most infants to squalling in protest went unnoticed by the indistinctly gray toned ball of slimy fur that would soon bear the name of Chaos. He'd fallen unconscious, prey to the difficult passage through the birth canal that had squeezed him wrong and cut off the blood supply for long enough that he'd lapsed from what little self-awareness an unborn pup possessed. It was the rough warmth of a tongue's incessant lathing that stimulated him to consciousness. Hunger. Cold. This was not right he did not want this. He flailed about him in confusion, squeaking. This was not what he wanted! But then he was nestled in something warm, not womb-warm but a different, fluffy warm, and the warmth allowed him to concentrate on what instinct told him he needed, bumping around with his mouth until he suddenly found what he sought. But when instinct prompted him to suckle, it didn't feel... right, that warm liquid that he craved barely made it into his mouth and he squalled in indignant frustration between attempts. He didn't know that it was his oddly shaped mouth that was the problem. He just knew that it wasn't working the way instinct told him it was supposed to and he was hungry. Finally he settled into some semblance of a rhythm and suckled furiously, though he still gave the occasional indignant squeak as he nursed.