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That Penguin knows the end is near. It matters little where he passes the remnant of his days, be it ice flow or bathtub. The remaining sunsets will not be many. The Penguin's cold night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his doomed horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the trail of this flightless bird. Wherever he might be, he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stoically to meet his doom, as does the wounded prey that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.
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