It grew colder by the day, and after much time had passed, white dust began to fall from the sky, freezing the little thing's feet so badly they became numb. Unlike its mother, who slept still in the large wooden nest for the other animals, the little thing missed the warmth of sleeping with its companion, and so sat at the door, crying.

At last, it was opened, and it was let in. The strange thing cried in delight and pet it, set it a saucer of thin, watery milk in front of a contained fire. It had grown used to the fire, knowing it to be contained in its cage, and so luxuriated in its warmth.

At night, then, the other, taller pink-skinned things let it run through the nest, catching and eating little grey animals; it feasted on these, and meat scraps, and slept by its strange thing or the caged fire. In mornings, it left to the outside, would wander through the trees, pastures, the squat cluster of little nests, would sometimes catch morsels.

But the strange thing in its grey not-fur was its favorite of the two-legged animals around it, and so it always returned.

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