The Grotto had been home, but when home got too small, Darcy had to go. The runt of her litter, she hated being babied and fought coos and patronizing words with teeth and biting words. But she was never anything but cute to them. So she had to go. Find somewhere she could be seen as the hellion she was. Be an equal, not a baby sister.
The journey here had been difficult, but she pushed through it. It was hard to admit, at times, that she missed the soothing touch of her mother when her lungs struggled to fill with air and her throat felt closed.
But as the massive lake came into view, Darcy knew she was home. And as she curled her toes into the stony shore, she knew this was it. Finding a den proved the hardest part, but a Darcy-sized boulder where she could dig out a small den in the pebbles was sufficient. She was independent. She could do this on her own and no one would coo or cuddle.
Even as the sun fell and she was feeling vulnerable, Darcy held a hope close to her heart that she would survive here on her own. The only Renoir to run away from home.