He growls again before getting back to my wrist. I watch him, chuckling, and he looks up at me. I move my hand and he pounces on it again, keeping it in place like he would a bone. I move it again and he growls again before taking my wrist in his jaws, trotting back on my stomach and plopping down.
All you need is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie-dust!
The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth. — Kate Chopin, The Awakening
