Moffel

It swims through loose sand with an easy breaststroke of those broad paws, mapping the dark by touch and the faint scent of the grubs and roots it eats. Its eyes are all but useless, so a Moffel hauled into daylight simply freezes, overwhelmed, and waits for a chance to dig back into the sane and sunless world it came from. It never drinks, drawing all its moisture from food, and it lines a deep sleeping-chamber with shed fuzz and dry grass, a warm nest at the still heart of the shifting dunes.