Barrow Fields i would ask, almost insist, on treating you kind and fair

your next drawing scene, developing before our very eyes. he's op qt

In the manner of a slaphappy Golden Retriever Tachyon wormed and floundered his weight until he was situated cozily beneath her on his backside, paws curled like apostrophes against his breast with tail a-thumping. He could have, without great difficulty, tossed the woe-begotten churl across the forest like one throws al-dente pasta against a cupboard, if he were so inclined. Alas, of course, he helped himself to the alternative of reveling in the small triumph of getting a female on top of him. 

Hovering her funnel-shaped snout mere inches above his (opening herself up to future unsolicited baths), Lusca pried her jowls wide apart and laxly unfurled her tongue with evil designs on snicker snagging him. A long, disgusting bungee-cord of spittle dangled in suspension, threatening to plink into his eyeball.