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Winter, despite being wonderfully beautiful, charming, mysterious, and romantic, isn't Quaxo's favourite time of the year.
As a kitten, he vaguely remembered making cold, hard snowcats and the terrifyingly thrilling winter storms. One memory in particular, his mother's death, turned him away from the whole concept altogether. The fear of freezing in the icy grips of winter soon became something he, being a shorthair, became painfully aware of.
Winter had always been a time of death and desolation for him, all the lovely colours and smells of summer transformed magestically into fall in its last attempt at survival before getting beaten down by the harshness of the first frost. It was a rather bleak time where the tux often found himself in a deep depression; laying alone and downtrodden in his den for the mostpart of the winter.
This year was slightly different.
During his previous years of winter blues and extended acts of hermitage, Quaxo often forgot about his need to eat, going day