Stavanger Bay dispersal

Moorhen’s feigned indifference, however discouraging and disappointing, was preferable to the battlecries and wardrums Julep and Isengrim customarily greeted Coelacanth with. The little seashell didn’t need to notice the sheepdog to soothe the empty ache in her chest; Seelie wasn’t necessarily responding to a maternal instinct so much as a pastoral one. More than a pack to belong to, the tiny Groenendael needed a flock to guard — and, just as her mother’s speckle-faced sheep had viewed Selkie as little more than a annoyance, Seelie didn’t expect affection from Doe’s children. She wanted it — thirsted for it — even tried to demand it sometimes — but never really expected to receive it.

In the face of her cousins’ violent rejection, Moorhen’s indifference was a walk in the park.

The inky ingénue wasn’t sure when or how or even if such indifference could be transmuted into tolerance, but she tested the waters with that litany of, “I am nice; see how nice I am?” whines quivering her whiskers, shimmying closer under pretense of pushing the oblong wafer of bone closer still. She didn’t think Moorhen would let her close enough to touch, but she wanted it so badly.