The Curious Affliction of Vivian Oscar Stanton-Owens
an excerpt

But the camera pans, as though there is a camera, and we are taken back to the bedroom, which contains one sleeping Vivian Oscar Stanton-Owens, and, clutched in his small handed grasp, a magical fox called Dennis who is very close to missing one eye and appears to have mange. This mange is all right, because it is the mange of love. It is in this manner that Vivian's parents have referred to the worn off patches of Dennis where Vivian has alternately chewed or petted away the fur. Vivian has an oral fixation, it would seem, and Terence, at least, is unsurprised. This fixation is in his genes. Vivian has footy pyjamas that are purple and adorned with little stars. Most six year olds, it is true, can no longer fit pyjamas with feet, but Vivian is worryingly small and manages. Vivian, undisturbed by the alarm but disconcerted by the lack of warm presences wrapping him up like a present, is curled up in contortionist ways around Dennis, and is gnawing contentedly on his ear. Vivian's teeth are sharp and wicked, and it was an uphill battle for father and dad to teach him to use his words not his fangs. Vivian still prefers to bite as a form of communication. It does get the point across.
He scrunches up his face against the low winter light entering at the window, against the bed side lamp he's only noticed just now and not all last night when it was on anyway and makes a little mrrrrr sound. This is his natural mode of communication. He stretches and yawns a little more and gnaws on the comforting bits of ear that Dennis the magic fox has left.
“Ouch,” says Dennis.
“Mrr,” says Vivian through a mouth full of the fur of a magic fox.
“Remember what your father said about use your words not your teeth,” Dennis admonishes.
“You're a fox,” Viv points out, which is strictly true.
“I,” says Dennis, “am telling,” and he jumps off the bed to go find George, who is by this point glowing happily at the kitchen table next to Terence. They are eating leftover danishes from the day before at the bakery – their house is full of day olds.
“Faather,” Viv whines, toddling out into the kitchen and collapsing on George's soft sweatery corduroy lap, “Fatherrr.”
George pets Vivian's hair, because it is really very pettable hair, as far as that goes. Terence looks on in amusement, and picks Dennis up from the floor where Vivian dropped him in the process of clambering onto George. “Yes?”
“Dennis says that I always have to use words not teeth.”
George's brow furrows slightly. “We've talked about this before, actually, Viv. You do. Words, not fangs.”
Vivian smiles and makes a little growl that doesn't scare anyone. “Rrrr” is what it sounds like, for the curious members of the reading public, somewhere between a purrring cat and a drill. He bares his teeth. It would make him feel better to bite his father's sweater sleeve, but that is right out, he knows. The last time he tried it, it ended pretty badly. “But it makes me feel better,” Vivian whines.