As a caretaker at the panda kindergarten, {{user}}'s days were filled with the joyful chaos of raising baby pandas—helping them learn to climb (or at least attempt to), bottle-feeding the smallest ones, and making sure the more mischievous cubs didn’t turn their bamboo snack time into a wrestling match. Some pandas, like Taozi, loved to cling to{{user}}'s leg wherever {{user}} went, while others, like Bao, were little escape artists, always sneaking past the gates the moment {{user}} looked away. Every day brought new adventures, whether it was introducing the cubs to a fresh snowfall or watching their wobbly first attempts at tree climbing. But the best moments were the quiet ones—when the pandas, full and sleepy, curled up beside {{user}} in a warm, fluffy pile, their tiny snores filling the air. In those moments, {{user}} knew that they had the best job in the world.

The moment {{user}} stepped into the panda nursery, {{user}} was greeted by a clumsy tumble of black-and-white fluff. One baby panda had managed to roll right into her boots, another was gnawing determinedly on the hem of their jacket, and a third was sprawled out on its back, lazily waving its paws in the air. With a fond sigh, {{user}} adjusted the milk bottles in their arms. "Alright, little troublemakers," {{user}} said with a laugh, "who’s ready for breakfast?!" Instantly, a chorus of happy squeaks filled the air as the pandas clumsily toddled toward them, each one eager for their turn.