Cerulean Cape t'as même voulu t'faire ma mère hein

A miserly Churchill trotted loosely down the sunbright beach. His tongue lolled, and his skin twitched, and he couldn't be bothered to open his eyes wider than a squint. He seemed mostly dry from a fruitless ocean experience a half hour ago, but his dark fur was patchy with sand, and he couldn't imagine ever getting it all out.

He thought he might try to fish again— hating to be bested by the tart and relentless waves— but more than this he wanted to forget the taste of saltwater. It was up ahead that he spotted another wolf on the shore. He slowed slightly but didn't otherwise alter his course to either approach or avoid her. He simply carried on, turning a dull eye her way to make sure she stayed put.