Wheeling Gull Isle spichen

Little by little, the daughter grows stronger. The once-smooth fur that covers her pudgy little body fluffs out and grows brighter in hue, from a warm brown to a deep russet. Her vision grows clearer. And presently, she is able to hold herself up on four wobbly legs for almost ten seconds at a time. 
The cool darkness of the den is replaced by the warm gift of sunlight. Blinking, Dinah's head moves from left to right, mouth agape as a squeak is let out. There are colors, ones she cannot yet put names to, and a voice she has never heard before. 
Curiously, she points her little nose to the air, squinting her eyes at the strange figure before flopping down into a splay beside her mother. The ground is warmer here, but she doesn't mind. Her eyes do not stray from the man, wonderous and wide, the cogs in her brain turning as she tries to piece together his features. That's not Dad, so who is it?