If there was one rule Egon always heard growing up, it was, "You don't choose your hoard. Your hoard chooses you." She just hadn't expected it to be so literal.
It started when she was just a few seasons old. Vera and Mord were squabbling over the food pile, their hoarding instincts yet to settle, when a small, fuzzy creature toddled over. It snatched a piece of jerky right out from under them, then sauntered proudly off. Neither noticed, still arguing over a plastic-wrapped cupcake. Egon was aflame with admiration.
"What is that thing?" she asked their mother, who was rearranging her hoard of undies from three small, messy heaps into one larger, tidier pile.
"A cat," her mother grumbled. "Sneaking little thieves. Sharp claws, too."
As if sensing her keen regard, the creature puffed up a little before darting out the cave's entrance.
Egon was disappointed by its departure, but glad to know the world had more wonders than she’d thought. "Cats." What sly, beautiful creatures.
When she woke up in the morning, it was sleeping on her head, perched between her horns.
Her hoard only grew from there.