The rustle as it walks towards you. The soft nibble on your fingers as a sign of affection. The smooth, yet rough, coat with a gazillion spears of death. Your hand, as it travels in slow motion to pet the small pointy head. The small squeal of enjoyment from the tiny body hidden beneath it all. The cuddle for warmth and a friendly human.
A baby porcupine, whose parents were shot by hunters, was brought to us. We raised the small critter (Spike), from a furball to a 1m high monster. He was a sport to have around, always playful, like a small child. He still roams around the farmhouse, even found himself a gal to keep company.