Sleepy Fox Hollow Go get yourself under those dead-sea lights.

It was difficult to track well while playing it off as if he were aloof. More than once, Anselm followed a scent molecule that lead him astray. It was not that Etienne's scent went every which way -- it was that Anselm was too proud to bend his head to the ground to detect direction.

But as the ground grew more damp and the scent clusters thicker, Anselm had a good idea of where Etienne was. He slowed his gait, as to appear nonchalant -- under the illusion he struck an image of coming and going like the neighbor's cat. Etienne was fully submerged; Anselm's gaze watched as the riverwater parted his deep cinnamon fur, darkening it to a ruddy ochre.

He wanted to blurt that he'd gone looking for him, but that sounded too -- well, gay. He wanted to articulate the hurt -- mostly self inflicted -- he felt when he feared Etienne had gone away forever. But none of these things were said, and Anselm was left looking at where he assumed the sore forepaws were.

How are your legs? Anselm wanted to ask like a normal person who cared about his friend. Instead, he blurted Vhere have you been?