Stavanger Bay brand new

When the cold grew too oppressive and it began to truly dawn on the atramentous sheepdog that she was alone in the world with three young lambs, she redoubled her efforts. With furious pushes of her dainty paws, she insulated the den with sand, pushing the soft, malleable stuff into every nook and cranny to protect her flock from the fierce and unforgiving winter winds. Palm fronds and grasses, discarded pelts and feathers were hoarded for their warmth so that the children would not be forced to lie upon cold, dead stone. They begrudgingly accepted her continued presence, no longer lunging to abuse her with their fangs and talons, but getting them to bend to her will was another thing entirely. She knew now and had accepted that they would never love her, but the rare moments that she was permitted to lie close to them and share the soft knot of their physical warmth eased the tautening ache of her heartstrings. Moorhen became particularly dear to her — mostly because she tolerated more and allowed Seelie the illusion of returned affection even if she did not share the sentiment — and on the days the wind wasn’t fit to flay the puppies alive, the unlikely quartet walked together along the shore, harassing sea lions and chasing seagulls.