Sun Mote Copse You were dancing in your tube socks in our hotel room.

With a wiggle of her hips she could work the branch out from under herself, easing it to her tailbone (which hurt) and then around her bum, then kicking at it with one orange paw. It was long enough to wedge against the ferns, and with a firmer kick there came a loud crack when the wood split. Following that Blackheart settled against the dirt and reached with her forelimbs in a big stretch. All of this transpired while the dark shape slunk closer to her; the ache in her back was a big distraction and so were the tiny birds fluttering invisible around her head, cartoon style. As that all wore away, Blackheart blinked up at the ledge that loomed in a haze over her — but soon enough it looked back at her.

The gleaming yellow eyes took shape and she blinked up at the face as it drew closer, unafraid, but only because she was too inexperienced with these wild creatures to know better. She was curious of the stranger too. By tucking her limbs against her belly and see-sawing forward, she could roll (albeit awkwardly) and then planted her paws against the dirt, her triangular ears flapping softly against her cheeks.

By all accounts the stranger looked like a possible friend. His tail was up, slanting over his hips in a manner that suggested friendlines by dog standards. His wide eyes were set in to an expressive, brackish face. The shafts of light caught upon his coat and made her vaguely aware of the autumnal quality of it: long, ragged, emberous. He looked very much like a shepherd - and maybe that eased her further from any natural fear response, for being even a little bit familiar.

But she knew better than to think he was like her. This place was no park, no hike, and none of these dogs had men with them. Her studying of his face and posture was deliberate, not realizing how her own dark stare might be offensive.