housework, if it is done right, can kill you
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     It had been six days since she had come to this peculiar little place. And in those six days, Aurèle had not managed to secure herself a den. She knew that was in part because of her nature (and because she had not had permanent residence in four years) and in part due to remarkably solid ground. The temperature had warmed enough to unthaw the most frozen layer, which she had been digging at for nearly half an hour. Her forepaws worked like pistons, scraping and tearing at the soil, and she was soon rewarded for this by reaching the soft dirt underneath.
     The white and tan female worked with the mindless process of a machine, removing black-brown earth from the small rise and sending it flying through the cold air. She made it only large enough to fit herself comfortably for the time being—Aurèle was not one to put stock in such residence, and if she found appropriate to do so later, she would expand it.
     A lack of greenery and anything dry made her unable to do much more then wind up with a small burrow, but for the time being, she was content with that. Stepping back and shaking off the loose soil, she snorted dust from her nose and spared a glance to the clear sky.




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