Stavanger Bay Ahoy! lets trouble the water!

When Foxglove felt like it, she could work very quickly, and by the time Rosalyn had returned and was accusing her for the lack of cooperation, the dappled she-wolf had dug a reasonably big hole (soft sand is handy). There at the bottom sending up a fume of rotten/mumified flesh was someone's lower part of the leg.

And judging by the claws it did not belong to an ungulate. Foxglove had no moral compass, ethical qualms or curiousity of, how that foot had come to the shores and who had used it before, she snatched it up and backpedaled herself out of the hole, holding it firmly in her jaws. 

She shot the chocolate colored she-wolf a half-victorious/half-boastful look, and pranced some distance off to have her fun with the foot.