Sun Mote Copse Don't tell me what the poets are doin'

Niamh bridged the gap by resting her head at Meerkat's level. The pup cooed her approval, bumping her much tinier nose to her Neema's. She instinctively opened her mouth a moment later, gumming at the adult's fleshy lip, though she let go with a little shudder when a whisker poked her, reeling backward and scrunching her face at the strangely unpleasant sensation.

When it faded, she blinked owlishly and then latched on again, this time her toothless maw angling toward the cleft right beneath her Neema's wet, leathery nose. There were short bristles here too, though they were soft and ticklish to the touch. Meerkat enjoyed this sensation so much she pressed in closer, mashing her cheek against the velveteen feel of it.