Totoka River the upper peninsula

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Geographically, Wheeling Gull Isle satisfied the persnickety little Groenendael’s every whim: it was isolated from the Teekon mainland, surrounded on all sides by the crash and burble of the sea, and ringed by buttersoft beaches. Its heart was a veritable wellspring of sweet snowmelt and rainfall, and it provided a wealth of warmblooded and pelagic fare. Logically speaking, she had no reason ever to leave her citadel — but her heart was swollen with hurt for dear Poppy, whose death had unearthed her past failures in a grandiosely melancholic torrent. They nipped at her feathered heels as she trotted nimbly across the drawbridge that opened to the Sequoia Coast, her tufted ears tucked against her skull as if by doing so she could shut out the clamor of worry that assailed her.

The tiny sheepdog drew up short at the sight of a mist-shrouded silhouette, and those oversized ears tipped forward upon her crown like twin periscopes. She was upwind from the stranger, which afforded her limited reconnaissance — but from sight alone she discerned that the faraway canid looked wolfish enough to be fully of wild ancestry, smallish in stature but larger than her, and cloaked in a muted wash of pale hue. She trotted near enough to make her wish for interaction known, but she was a bashful creature and kept enough distance between them that her shyness would be overt. She was just a bit too far away to be merely polite, but not quite far enough to be considered avoidant. It was a middle ground of blue-gray indecision in which she ensconced herself, a tremulous whuff whispering from her lips as her feathered plume wriggled in tentative goodwill. Warily, she remained poised on her tiptoes, ready to flee at his behest.