# Chapter 2: Icy Demise, Fuzzy Rebirth

Arthur Grimshaw—or rather, *Barnaby*, as he was now called—felt the cold in a way that only a toddler could: sharply, incessantly, annoyingly. Bundled up in a snowsuit that made him look more caterpillar than human, with his limbs stubby and his wrists perpetually lost somewhere in the depths of his sleeves, he waddled around the snowy yard of the quaint cottage he’d been born into just two short years ago. Well, short for everyone else. For Arthur, they felt like *ages*.

There was something suffocating about toddlerhood. Perhaps it was the fact that everyone just scooped him up against his will, like he didn’t have any agency. Or maybe it was the way his legs never quite cooperated, always betraying him with unexpected wobbles. But mostly, it was the fact that this life, with all its newfound clumsiness and relentless coddling, was shadowed by a persistent, nagging feeling: something bad was bound to happen. He didn’t know what exactly, but his gut told him this wasn’t going to be the long, flourishing life he’d hoped for. Not that he had much time to think about it.

Because Barnaby—Arthur—was dealing with a *situation*.

There they were. The icicles.

Sharp, jagged, glistening and entirely too menacing for a sleepy little hamlet like this one. They hung from the cottage eaves like crystal daggers, poised as if they had been crafted by the universe for one singular purpose: to stab toddlers. Or maybe just *him* specifically. He stared at one particularly vicious-looking spike that caught the light just so. From his vantage point—tiny, already too short for this life—it looked like an ice-covered guillotine precariously held in place by a warden consumed with cruel thoughts. It made his pudgy fingers instinctively clench the sleeves of his snowsuit, which didn’t so much help his grip as make him look like a terrified caterpillar with a vendetta against the cold.

"Not today," Barnaby mumbled, his words coming out in an unintelligible toddler slur. Not that it mattered—no one paid much attention to him when he muttered things. He shuffled carefully toward the corner of the yard, away from the eaves, sticking close to the walls with a paranoia that looked ominously advanced for his age.

Toddlers didn’t have much capacity for reasoning, or at least that’s what his parents probably thought when they saw him toddle oddly sideways. But he *knew*. Deep down—not in a fully conscious way but in the pit of his being—Arthur remembered danger. He didn’t know why or how, but that sharp spike of *fear* was enough to inform every clumsy step.

And then came the ball.

It was red and shiny, almost comically bright against the dull, snow-covered yard. It came rolling past his booted feet, wobbling slightly on the uneven terrain. He bent low to examine it, his breath fogging up the air in front of him. A perfectly neutral object, right? A child’s toy. No reason to be suspicious or paranoid about a ball, for goodness’ sake. He could almost hear an exasperated adult voice in his head saying, *Live a little, for crying out loud.*

But Arthur wasn’t buying it.

He stood there, tiny hands on his hips, glaring at the ball like it had deeply insulted him. It was blandly cheerful, too cheerful for the current state of his internal existential dread. And then, just as he was starting to feel the faintest tickle of guilt for thinking unkindly of a literal inanimate object, the situation escalated.

A puppy bounded into the yard.

Now, the puppy was everything you’d expect from a pup: fuzzy, floppy, and *way too enthusiastic*. It darted after the ball, its little tail wagging furiously, its paws kicking up bits of snow as it clumsily chased its prize. It yipped joyfully, its high-pitched barks echoing off the cottage walls. It was adorable, obviously, but Arthur was busy being severely inconvenienced by this entire situation.

The puppy snatched the ball, triumphantly shaking it in its tiny jaws, and turned to face Barnaby with a look that, if he didn’t know better, seemed like pure puppy smugness. The universe, Arthur decided right then and there, had a sick sense of humor.

"Great,” Arthur muttered, although it emerged more like “Geh!” in toddler speak. He had no choice now. He had to chase it. Something primal in him stirred (likely some deeply buried instinct from this new life) and forced his stubby legs into motion. He was faster than he thought he’d be, a surprising little cannonball of energy, wobbling toward the dog with determination.

The puppy darted toward the center of the yard—toward *the danger zone*.

Arthur stopped short. The icicle. The particularly large one—the one that had been *calling his name like the world’s worst siren*. It hung just above the puppy now, swaying faintly in a way that could make your stomach drop if you stared long enough.

Arthur’s hesitation was brief but fatal. The puppy barked again, prompting him to shake off his fear for one foolish second. He ran forward without thinking—straight into the danger zone.

And then it happened.

The puppy, happy in its ignorance, gave a sharp, excitable yap toward the sky. It was almost like a cosmic signal. As if the universe had been waiting for that exact moment to deliver its punchline.

The icicle creaked.

Arthur stopped dead, eyes snapping skyward. He saw it move, ever so slightly, rocking loose from its frozen perch. His eyes widened in pure, unadulterated terror.

On some level, he had known. He’d felt this moment lurking in his bones. He could’ve sworn the bloody thing smirked at him for half a second before plummeting.

The last thought running through Arthur Grimshaw’s head was: *Not the icicle. This is such a bloody cliché.*

And then: nothing.

---

When he next opened his eyes, he wasn’t Barnaby the toddler anymore. He’d taken on a new form.

This one… this one was altogether fluffier.

Arthur blinked against the overwhelming brightness of the day, his vision blurry but unmistakably sharper than before. His surroundings took shape gradually—a barn, a haystack, a gruff farmer muttering at a piece of broken equipment. And then there was movement. He looked down—or rather, he tried to—and realized his field of vision curled around a fuzzy black and white muzzle.

He wiggled experimentally, and his tail wagged in response. Oh no. Oh *no*.

This was… inconvenient.

Arthur (“Bartholomew,” as he would soon overhear the farmer calling him) had been reincarnated. Again. But this time, he wasn’t even human. He was a sheepdog. To be fair, a very cute sheepdog. But still. A *dog*.

As a puppy, life was refreshingly simple at first. There were no taxes, no spreadsheets, no responsibilities beyond wagging his tail and occasionally chewing on things he wasn’t supposed to. He sniffed and dug and occasionally rolled in mud (which, to his new primal instincts, was apparently delightful).

For a fleeting moment, he considered he might actually enjoy this life. There was something pure, something joyful, about being a fluffy little creature who chased its tail when bored. It felt… freeing, oddly enough. Perhaps his curse wouldn’t be so bad as long as he avoided any particularly suspicious icicles.

But the universe, as ever, had different plans.

On one particularly blissful morning on the farm, Bartholomew discovered a shed filled with curiosities. It started innocently enough—he sniffed at old tools, a couple of rusty buckets, a suspiciously sour-smelling pair of boots. But then, buried in a corner in an old, dusty box, he found them.

Thimbles.

Bartholomew barked in delight, pawing at the tiny metal objects until one rolled free. It caught the light in a way that made something deep in his puppy brain tingle—a flicker of recognition. He batted at it, his tail wagging furiously, and a faint image flashed in his mind.

A cluttered sewing room. A desk covered in thread and fabric. The smell of machines humming faintly in the background.

It was distant, disconnected, but there. And just as suddenly as it came, it disappeared, leaving only a lingering sense of melancholy Arthur couldn’t quite shake. He lay there for a while, his paws crossed over the thimble, staring at it with what could only be described as the quiet contemplation of a dog grappling with existential dread.

For Bartholomew, though, the thimble was more than just a curious discovery. It was a reminder. A thread (or perhaps a *stitch*, if we’re keeping on theme) connecting him back to something—something bigger.

Not that the farmer cared.

“Oi, you little rascal! What’ve you got there?”

Bartholomew barked and darted off, the thimble safely tucked between his teeth. For now, at least, he still had time. Time for play, for naps, and for chasing butterflies in the soft grass.

But deep down—maybe far deeper than his excessively fluffy fur—Arthur knew. This peaceful, fleeting happiness wouldn’t last. It never did.

And so, life moved on. Well… until it didn’t.