Stavanger Bay when the river took flight

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It pleased Szymon immensely to hear the mother of his children speak so reverently of the Sea. She had embraced the Cairn way more fully than he could ever have expected of her. Touched, he nosed lovingly at the base of her folded-over ear, whuffing softly to tickle at the thick, soft fur that lined it. His golden eyes drifted from Doe’s profile to the four small sea cucumbers, and with an infinitely careful nose he investigated each of them again. “You are — ” he breathed, at a loss for words, “you must be — ” Chuckling, he shook his head, nibbling tenderly at her cheek. “A goddess could not be greater than you, Doe,” was what he finally landed on, his sonorous bass timbre a little shaky and rough around the edges. The faint note of stunned disbelief in his tone finished his statement for him: “How in the world did I get so lucky?”

Szymon welcomed Deirdre’s approach with a hearty thump of his ginger-laced tail, his auriferous eyes warm and filled with pride; a low rumble of greeting trailed from his lips and was punctuated by a guttural chuff. Beyond that, he remained quiet and still, fading into the background as was his wont. Still, the very fact that he did not move from his vulnerable position conveyed his deep trust in Deirdre — the ink-ribbed angler was a generally distrustful creature and would have likely roused himself at the appearance of a less trustworthy wolf.

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