Wheeling Gull Isle a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied

Large-scale meetings were miles outside the tiny Groenendael’s present comfort zone; and although her nimble paws had been spurred into motion with eager alacrity by the Earthstalker’s sonorous cry, the presence of others — even those she knew and loved — brought her to a neat, immediate halt. She ensconced herself in a tangle of white ginger and sweet pea, hunkering down within earshot, tufted ears perched keenly atop her skull.

Unbeknownst to her, she and Maera wrinkled their noses simultaneously at Komodo’s notion that the wolves here were, by circumstance alone, made family. Though she understood the angakkuq’s meaning and could appreciate the sentiment, the little sheepdog was almost obsessively particular about where certain lines were drawn.

Coelacanth was Corten’s great-granddaughter, and although Ixchel and Axolotl also claimed the patronymic, she classed them as friends. It didn’t mean she loved them any less — it simply meant that they did not share blood, bone, and flesh with her. Aside from the tufted ears, Seelie was created in her domesticated mother’s likeness; and the cobalt tint to her atramentous fur and her brilliant cerulean eyes were traits she shared with the Seabird. Amoxtli, decidedly fluffier than his sleeker sibling as befitted the sexual dimorphism of the longhaired Belgian breeds, was all Corten in coloration, down to the fiery eyes; but he cast a silhouette more akin to his domesticated ancestors. They had identifiable, definable similarities that could be pointed to and quantified — they were family. Seelie could reach out to them without fear or rebuke — could “speak” to them and know that they would almost always understand — and she believed firmly that if she’d come to them even in her bedraggled state, they would have tamed and treasured her without question or demur.

Even Komodo, who could have been mistaken for one of Corten’s descendents by appearance alone, and who ticked all of the latter three boxes, was a friend to Coelacanth. A very beloved, infinitely trustworthy friend — but not her family. For the tiny wolfdog, such boundaries were necessary to keep all of her relationships special, individual, and unique.

It was love for him, King, and Cascada that drew her with a modicum of reluctance from her fragrant sanctuary. She moved with stuttering hesitation across the sand, shy as a spring fawn, and stopped when she was still just a blip on the outskirts of the group. Her stance showed her to be on high alert, feathered tail hanging still between her hocks and dainty head moving with quick, birdlike motions to focus on each face. She was more gamine and less skeletal now, though the scalloped gradient of her ribs and the crenellated bridge of her spine still pressed against the inky silk of her fur. Neptune eyes lingered the longest on those she’d developed a relationship with, but flickered toward whoever had the speaking floor at the time; her tufted ears were pricked and eager, flickering like hummingbird wings to catch each sound. Any unfamiliar advances toward her would be greeted with nimble-footed avoidance as she sought to maintain a specific amount of distance — but those who had earned her trust would perhaps be permitted nearer.