Cerulean Cape where the moon is made of gold

Takes place directly following this post. For @Screech ♥

The tiny Groenendael’s tufted ears perked with concern as the roughhewn, ill-used lamb strayed from the flock. Perhaps he thought himself exempt from her obsessive-compulsive headcounting, but he was mistaken! She trailed after him with a timorous air, pert ears tipped forward upon her velveteen crown and nose quivering like a nervous rabbit’s. In her mouth was a sizeable chunk of the sea lion’s flesh — she’d been right in the middle of excising a portion for herself and Stockholm, but she would gladly give it to the boy if it lured him into staying. Dipping her muzzle, she sniffed at the prints he’d left behind. He was younger than her, but she was smaller, which was fairly typical; and he smelled uneasy, a feeling of jittery anxiousness that melted into her own mood with an empathic, involuntary seamlessness. She did not fear him — not much —

— still, she moved forward cautiously, and with a great deal of trepidation.

His back was to her as she crested a sand dune, and she made herself small as she beckoned his attention with a tremulous boof! that was punctuated by a shy, wheedling ellipsis of a whine. If he deigned to turn and look upon her, he would see that her finely-crafted head was tilted in a silent inquiry, her luminous Neptune eyes filled with the hopeful entreat of a dog whose owner is about to leave for a solo trip to the supermarket: “Are you really leaving? Do you really have to?” Once she’d caught his attention, she crept forward on her belly with her feathered tail sketching a pattern in the sand like a lie detector test needle on the fritz. Then, still hopefully, she placed her offering on the ground and hopped like a bunny away from it to encourage him to take it.