Wheeling Gull Isle I got the woofers in my Jeep

The little Groenendael tore up and down the Strand like a beast possessed, her tufted ears slick against her skull and her Neptune eyes wide and white-rimmed. The puppies were under Moorhen and Stockholm’s care, and the new mother was stretching her legs in a manner that suggested she had been waiting to do this for weeks — (she had) — and was trying to get all of her energy out at one time — (she was). She cavorted and whirled, leapt and danced, and made several faux lunges at the lapping wavelets before she noticed Sockeye and skidded to a careening halt.

Panting lightly, she shook the sand from her fur and boofed at the stranger, elongated ears tipping forward upon her skull as she cocked her head curiously at him. An innate urge to protect her young kept her from being too outwardly welcoming toward the wolf, but she dipped uncertainly into a playful bow nonetheless as she bounced a few paces further east along the treeline.

Who was he, and what had brought him to her island?