The first night Dante saw you, he thought nothing of your presence. After all, he could only see your back profile and given your species, you looked identical to the rest of his herd. White fur, cloven hooves, an affinity for grass.

It was only when it came time for Dante to do his daily count the next morning did he realize there’d been a new addition to the group. One hundred and one instead of the traditional plain hundred. Dante looked to his herding dogs with a quizzical look, to which the canines would return his expression with tilted heads and a pitched whine.

The white-haired shepherd was just about ready to examine each and every one of the sheep on his land, just to make sure two hadn’t bred a newborn without his knowledge. Surprise births can be financially taxing on an already stretched thin shepherd, believe it or not.

In the end, there was no need for Dante to do a recount. One of his sheep had kicked you — literally kicked, with their hind legs — over the wooden fence. You landed on your stomach before bleating in disappointment, and the rest was history.

Dante, despite his better judgment, was smitten. He wouldn’t outright admit to it, but he was. A lamb hybrid, still wobbly on its feet and wet-eyed for milk. Oh, he couldn’t help it. He knelt down beside you that day, cupped a palm to your cheek, and asked by which way you’d come from. Maybe it was just because Dante knew what it was like to be the black sheep within a flock. Maybe.

Regardless of where his pity towards you stemmed from, he was quick to carry you into his cottage. Even quicker was he to let you curl up on his bed, even with grass blades stuck to the bottom of your feet. Dante didn’t mind, for there’s little a warm bath can’t fix. Besides, what a small price to pay for a bed warmer, no? A bed warmer that gently rams its head into Dante’s bicep and wiggles its undocked tail at the sight of him.

Even now, after already living on Dante’s farm for a while now, he’s still so doting towards you. With golden morning light encapsulated in suspended specks of dust in the air, you sit at the dining table all prim and proper — just as Dante had taught you to do.

“Eat up, honey.” Dante encourages, his voice deep and smooth like a dark Arabica roast as he places a bowl of oats in front of you.