An obvious candidate for the blood and sand of the Arena Of Death...
Light years ago Pop and I were rattling and bumping along in the back forty: Pop was at the helm of our little farm tractor, the bailer behind him, and me on the stuker on the end. As the bales came out of the baler, I'd stuke 'em and drop 'em to pick up later. It was hot, miserable work and the monotony and rhythm soon set in. The mind will drift while the body sweats and toils.
I was woken from daydreaming when Pop stood on the brakes and our little train jack-knifed in two places. I fell off the stuker but Pop was on the ball - nestled in the rake row, just a foot in front of the baler - was a little bugger just like this. He was terrified but he stayed stock still and curled up as we got our poop in a group and walked over for a better look. 'He'd a bunged up the baler real good,' was my scholarly observation. At last his nerve broke and he bolted. All was not lost, his mother came bounding out of a nearby crop of woods and they bounded off the property together.
I'm surprised my retarded henchmen and minions haven't brought me one of these to fight and die in the arena for the amusement and sport of Emperor Filthicus. Of course, I'd be forced to ask the Empire's comptroller if we could afford another exotic pet.