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

The tilt, which Niamh interpreted only as being cute, rather than an indication that she favoured the one side, caused Niamh to shimmy her shoulders, grin, and utter a small, soft squeal. "Ugh, you're just so cute!" She crooned, and as soon as she was prompted, she tipped her muzzle down to nuzzle the girl's belly, rubbing the tip of her nose gently against her underside and doing her best to slick back her own whiskers so as not to tickle the child. Niamh loathed being tickled, so more often than not, she avoided doing the same to kids. Raspberries, though, she had a-plenty, so she blew another one against Meerkat's pale underside, causing the fur and puppy fat to ripple gently from the buzzing air she blew against it. 

She kept her muzzle close to the little one, and smoothed the fur she'd just slobbered on with warm caresses of her tongue. She couldn't get enough of puppy smell, that triggered something her brain that made her just want to nuzzle and kiss the baby all day. Niamh wasn't much of a singer- and was fairly tone-deaf, but she hummed tunelessly at the child, nonetheless, as she bathed her.