ain’t no babysitter

spring has sprung, or whatever, and in the wake of whatever cosmic horniess gripped her packmates, Yarra finds herself tripping over puppies left and right. they’re…ugh…everywhere. they’re squealing and running about, tripping over clumsy feet and pestering their parents with moronic questions. it’s…grating comes to mind. Yarra has always expected she’d have children of her own some day - further the Saxe line and all that - but now that she’s faced with her own family’s spawn, she can’t say the notion greatly appeals to her. no, Yarra is more than happy to slip out of her den early most mornings and practice some offensive moves away from the others, trying to keep those feelings of inadequacy at bay. it’s during one such jaunt, however, that heralds a strange…occurrence. Yarra is boxing at thin air, relishing the strain and ripple of her muscles as she lands blow after blow on some invisible opponent, when a garbled shriek rents the air. Yarra pauses, eyes narrowing. at first, she thinks it’s one of the brats whining for attention - but then she spots it a few paces away: a buck, it’s beady eyes trained on her as it paws at the earth.

when Yarra makes eye contact, the buck gives another scream and charges forward, head lowered so the points of each antler is directed her way. Yarra gives a squawk of indignation, fury mounting as she darts of the range. how dare it? prey doesn’t act this way! the buck, however, simply whirls in a circle and begins to mount a second charge.

wc: 259/1500