Wheeling Gull Isle Some kind of change, some kind of spinning away.

Dinah began babbling, the swiftness of her words quickly making Towhee’s eyes hurt. But the grandmother smiled, shifting again to kick out a foreleg. She grasped the feather and began twirling it, admiring the deep blues hues that shone in the summer sun in between her granddaughter’s bursts of speech.

Well, most pups your age would be going on short trips with adults and moving to a rendezvous site soon, so you wouldn’t be stuck in the den. I guess that’s neither here nor there, Towhee drawled.

She tilted her head as if giving Dinah’s next few questions some deep thought. Towhee had never censored herself for her own pups and wasn’t about to start now. Maybe as much as Caracal and Heda had appreciated her help, they would be glad to be rid of the heathen. The thought made her chuckle.

Seriously? Towhee teased. You don’t know shit? She couldn’t help but bark a little laugh at that. Shit is another word for poop. It’s also one of grandma’s choice epithets. That’s how pups get here, by the way: the mother shits them out.

Eyes dancing, she paused there to see what Dinah would make of this information.