wish to be wounded

Knee bent to the path, wicker basket offering a toothless splinter, Flora realized that she'd no idea how she'd been expecting Dromarch to go about picking flowers. Did it seem any more natural for him to bite through stems with his teeth than for him to approach the plants and momentarily rear onto hind paws in order to pretend possession of opposable thumbs?

Furthermore, she knew his paws were as soft as a human's. Perhaps a little more durable, but not that much, surely?

Yet he seemed doubly determined to pick the roses, the nettles, the things Flora wouldn't touch.