Nero’s fur proves scratchy against your own, but you provide no qualms about it. You’re much more appreciative of the practicality it provides for you in terms of warmth now that the leaves on the farm are changing color and the wind proves sharper, colder.

The usual evening stars have come out of hiding tonight, a few constellations familiar to your eyes and Nero’s. Recently, the two of you have taken up the silent hobby of making pictures out of the stars. You once told Nero that the Cassiopeia constellation was akin to a stick of wheat, to which his ears folded down in confusion.

Nero has his tail leaning towards your back as you babble on about how you wonder how ancient civilizations had enough brain power to recognize star patterns. Though he enjoys spending time with his ovine friend, he still has a job to do — be alert for any threats that roam just outside the farm’s fences.

“Heard the Babylonians were the ones who kickstarted the whole constellation thing.” Nero murmurs distractedly, his ears pin-straight atop his head and eyes squinting over the horizon.

“There wasn’t shit else for them to do back then.”