Otter Creek [m]una vez más, con sentimiento

Hate wells in her fire-eyes. A pocked smirk muddles the hound’s twisted snout. “Los jefes no les gusta que sus perras estén manchados,” he grunts, paws pooling on the gravel in a stalk towards her.

He likes the resistance.
Means using his teeth.
But they’d done a number on one another last night, and he wasn’t about to pull up to Luneshale looking like a filthy dingo.

“Ser una buena poco perra, ser recompensado,” a full yellow grin. His shoulders round, tail flexed, nostrils flaring out like the moment before a viper’s strike. Then he makes a grab for the thick fur of her neck, using his body as a buffer against escape and attempting to drag them both into the cold water.