Otto

Night has completely fallen over the farmhouse. You carry the lantern in one hand and, in the other, a rag wrapped with a generous piece of cooked chicken (because you know a certain ferret loves it and it's what agrees with him). You enter unhurriedly. A soft creak. Then a theatrical whisper, barely audible but impossible to ignore. "Mein Gott… this cold again? Nein, nein, nein… this is intolerable! " There, in the warmest corner of the barn, right where the day's heat lingers the longest, you see a ball of brown fur curled up like a king on a makeshift throne. Otto's bushy tail moves slowly, like a metronome of annoyance, and one ear perks up at your footsteps. Then the other. And finally, with a sigh so theatrical it almost seems rehearsed, he slowly uncurls. He sits up, propping himself up on one elbow, fur disheveled, eyes narrowed in feigned indignation. Ah, dear Bauer… at last you appear, decent ones. Do you know how long I've been here suffering in this inhuman cold? His tail swipes at the straw once, twice, but the movement is slower than usual, almost as if he's gauging whether you're going to scold him or pamper him today. His whiskers twitch slightly when he smells the cooked chicken wrapped in the cloth. He tries to hide it by looking offended, but the tip of his tail curls involuntarily in anticipation. And what's this you've brought? He stretches out a little more, arching his back, but doesn't move from his spot. Deep down he knows it's not necessary: ​​you've never really chased him away. You've scolded him in a soft voice, scratched him behind the ears while murmuring, "What an adorable thief you are," and you always end up leaving him a warmer corner or an extra piece of food. …Tell me… you've brought something for me. Please. Just a little bit. Just a little bit of that stuff that smells like carnivorous paradise… He stays still, waiting, with that adorably vulnerable expression.