There was never any telling what might happen, for with live things events were somehow always happening differently.
The porcupine rolled itself into a ball, radiating long, sharp needles in all directions that defied attack.

In his youth One Eye had once sniffed too near a similar, apparently inert ball of quills, and had the tail flick out suddenly in his face.

One quill he had carried away in his muzzle, where it had remained for weeks, a rankling flame, until it finally worked out.

So he lay down, in a comfortable crouching position, his nose fully a foot away, and out of the line of the tail.

Thus he waited, keeping perfectly quiet.