Wheeling Gull Isle not unlike the waves

The sheepdog watched her children play with a warm, amused expression, but her energy was sapped. The summer heat seemed oppressive to her, penetrating her inkdark fur and nestling with suffocating closeness against her skin. She stretched out, too warm to spoon lovingly against the heavy-furred Gampr who sprawled nearby, and breathed to their children in a silky susurrus, “Flower. Grayling, Trea — Thresher.” Of all her children, she got Thresher’s name mixed up the most. The little girl was Treasure more often than not, but, well, she was a treasure to her doting parents. “Koi, Six,” she added, for the simple joy of saying their names.

Koi had been engrossed in climbing Stockholm Mountain, little grunts and growls of effort whirring in her throat — but this time, when she tumbled off, she bounced delightedly over to Thresher and Grayling and crouched in the grass like a kitten waiting to pounce. Arching her back, she skittered sideways, her tail and hackles puffed out dramatically. Her ears still would not stand up, but hopefully that was only a matter of time. She fancied it made her harder to find or detect, but this wasn’t the case — even when she dipped below another tuft of grass, her tick-tocking tail immediately gave her away. “Roo!” she proclaimed in a sweet soprano, her voice rising and falling in a manner that seemed intentionally tuneful. “Awa — rrr…rooooo!”