Stavanger Bay You ask me to enter

They looked like rocks to him. Small, smooth, piled across the ground where rocks often lived. He looked down at them for a minute longer, missing the sight of the woman adding distance between them, but when he raised his attention back to her, he took notice of it, though did not move. He then glanced at her paws, and at the broken bits of shell, and the line of clam guts that had wet the previously dry array of stones.

Clam, he murmured as he looked back at the shapes at his feet. He sounded like an idiot, surely, but it did not bother him. She was teaching him a vital lesson, and perhaps it would be enough to spare her life. Tetsubo reached out then, and he grasped one of the objects, but when he pulled it out of the sand there was a mess of other things that came with it: namely, other clams. There was a line of barnacles and a tendril of some sort, like a root, which seemed to net them together. With a yank he managed to pull a trio free of the rest, but resorted to spitting it out again, and letting it fall to the ground with a clatter.

It was at this point that, should Tetsubo have been able to identify emotion, he'd have realized how much he hated the beach.

He grunted, probably to indicate annoyance, licked the salt from his lips, and then nosed about the pile of clams that he had dropped. Some had cracked but not enough; others were leaking fluids that smelled just as foul as Osprey's find across the beach; and yet there were still others that were untouched, and they gleamed beneath the summer sun as if to beckon him closer for another attempt. Rocks are not for eating, he recited back at her, although he was still looking down at the pile.