There is cold before the warmth. There is stillness before the movement. Trixie is waiting for the change. Her coat is... She's cold. Her eyes are shut. Clenched. The wind blowing through leaves sounds like rain hitting her cabin. Her eyes are clenched and awkward but the rest of her is still and weightless, effortless. All her life, she's been waiting for the change, this dead weight, waiting and hoping.
And then at once, in sudden, cold is warm and stillness is movement. She can feel it, weight. Pressure. Another's hoof strums along her flesh. No malice, no passion. An exhortation of life. One hoof, the soft strum against her flesh. The would and could and is, is real. Then the other hoof, not to strum but to hold. To couch around her in whole, and keep.
Then the barrel, the chest, right next to her own. Just to lay and be warm. A heart pumping real blood, warm blood, next to her own. The soft thump through ripple muscle flesh skin and fur. Moving, being honest.
And the maw, perched next to her face, allowing warm, warm breath. Deep and true, in and out, tickling her ear. Real breath, soft and simple, but stuffed so full with everything inside it. Everything.
Her body fills and knows and churns. Her eyes clench tighter. She can't look. She doesn't want to. She just wants to know it's true.