Spoiled baby Bika screamed sharply the moment daddy set him down on the farm ground. The sound was sudden, piercing, filled with rage and fear all at once. To Bika, being dropped down—even gently—felt like betrayal. His small body stiffened, arms flailing wildly as his cry rose higher and higher, echoing across the open field.
He threw himself backward, shaking hard in an angry seizure-like tantrum, legs kicking, fists clenched tight. Dirt stuck to his fur, making him even angrier. He didn’t want the ground. He didn’t want space. He wanted to be held, carried, protected like always. The farm felt too big, too open, too wrong.
Daddy froze for a moment, worried by the intensity of the cry. He knelt quickly, speaking softly, trying to calm Bika without giving in to the demand. But Bika couldn’t hear comfort yet. His crying turned hoarse, chest heaving as his body trembled from emotion more than strength. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with dust.
The other animals nearby paused, sensing the storm. Bika rolled onto his side, screaming again, tiny hands slapping the ground in protest. This was not just spoiled behavior—it was fear wrapped in anger. Being put down meant losing control, and control was everything to his small heart.
Daddy moved closer, not lifting him immediately. He placed a steady hand on Bika’s back, grounding him, letting the tantrum burn itself out safely. Slowly, the shaking eased. The screams softened into broken sobs. Bika gasped for breath, exhausted by his own emotions.
Only then did daddy scoop him up, holding him firmly against his chest. The crying stopped almost instantly. Bika clung tightly, still sniffling, but calmer now. His body relaxed as he felt the familiar heartbeat again.
That moment taught a quiet lesson. Bika learned that being set down didn’t mean abandonment. Daddy learned that spoiled cries often hide deep insecurity. On that farm, under the open sky, anger faded into comfort, and a small heart learned—slowly—that love can stay close, even when feet touch the ground.
