Ankyra Sound Find table space to say your social graces

Though the aroma was stomach-churning in its foulness, a soupy mix of stomach acid and curdled mother's milk, Wylla's snout snaked toward it curiously and she unbalanced herself. Slipping from atop Ingram, the sooty pup collapsed on the den floor with an indignant squawk, righted herself, and sought once more the vile scent of her own secretion.

Even as Ingram prodded into her ribs and smeared her own spit-up across her side, the girl attempted to turn, drawing her thin and frail limbs wide in futile sweeping motions that likely hit her brother at least once or twice. She could not find the ground to grip it and haul herself, and soon she floundered, frustrated, while the sensitive and ticklish flesh over her ribcage jumped and shivered from Ingram's offending brushes. Cries came unbidden to her lips, as yet unable to form a laugh, and she gurgled out a sound like a sailor drowning as even more spit-up graced the den floor in front of her.

Unlike the previous bout that was beginning to spike and dry in Ingram's fur, this was within reach and she ungracefully shoved her nose right into it, only to recoil in horror straight into Ingram as it found its way into her nostrils.