Trog finds a friend

Trog paused. Something in the corner of his cage had caught his eye, interrupting the latest demonstration of his boundless rage. Powerful, leathery hands quickly scooped up the strange object. He tasted it, and was disappointed to discover that it was not food. His anger quickly rose, and he considered smashing it, but something stayed his brutish hand. He slowly turned the thing over, absorbing the details as much as his tiny brain would allow.

It had hair, but not like his. No, this hair was soft. And it was the color of the sun. He touched his own matted, gnarled, bug-infested thatch of hair, and found the unfamiliar feeling of shame washing over him. He began, on a crude level, to doubt his self- worth. This object created a desire to hold. To protect. No one wanted to hold Trog. Quite the opposite. The other oddly-garbed people that inhabited this strange new world he had inexplicably found himself in screamed when they saw him. They chased him. Threw things at him. Locked him in a cage.

Trog decided that he would not smash this thing. He would instead love it. He would feed it. Keep it warm. Raise it as his own. And if anyone tried to take his new thing, he would strangle them.