Hideaway Strath all of us speak with different tongues

At six weeks old, the difference between Eirlys and her healthier siblings is indiscernible. She is plump and round, covered in lustrous, downy fur, with oversized ears and a sturdy bone structure that suggests she may more closely resemble her broad-featured mother than her svelte, sharply-etched father. It is most evident in her face, which already appears slightly more rounded than dark-furred Mallaidh’s. Her misty blue eyes are bright and curious as she bounds into the clearing, utterly devoid of any trace of her neonatal struggles. Roarke has something, and she wants it. It doesn’t matter what “it” is — he has it, and she doesn’t.

She voices her complaint in a series of brisk, staccato barks, her hips seeming to have a life of their own as she weaves an unsteady circle around her twin. They swivel and sidestep, seemingly tugging her forequarters along with them, and abruptly switch direction and wriggle back the other way. All the while, she issues her most threatening growl — a soft, kittenish ticking that stutters and stops when she has to pause for breath or when her clumsy steps cause a hiccup in the sound. A few horizontal hops cause her to collapse in a tumble, but she’s immediately up and at it again, tail switching as she pipes a tinny howl.

She resumes circling her twin in a weird backward-sideward scuttle, feinting now and again with little lunges and bounds, then bumps into her father tail-first. Surprise has her whipping around with a defiant bark — is it @Mallaidh or @Ceallach come to wrestle and play? — but the sight of Arturo delights her utterly. A happy shiver runs from the tip of her nose all the way down to the fluff of her tail, which takes up a wagging so intense she falls over onto her side. Then, overcome with excitement, she attempts to fasten her aching teeth into his forearm. She loves him — but she also kind of wants to bite him.