Pipkin was a wanderer. Not by choice, but by circumstance. He’d been born under a tangled rosebush in a forgotten corner of a sprawling garden, but the humans had tidied it up, and suddenly, Pipkin’s cozy nest was gone. So, he’d set off, his tiny claws clicking softly on the damp earth, his sensitive nose twitching, searching for a place to call his own. He tried a hollow log, but it was already home