Big Salmon Lake he's the ruffian on the stair

Fishing tended to take a lot out of Boone, hence his present lazing. Jaws spread wide in a great, whole-body yawn, and the muscles in his face were stretched so tight that he had to shake his flat head afterwards in order to rid himself of the residual tingling in his scarred cheeks. Boone licked his chops, lidded eyes lingering on closure as he peered out onto the mid-day lake. The breeze riled the water, and he watched the waves without really seeing them.

He had dried quickly in the past hour, but was still damp and spiky in some places. His forefront had been appropriately cleaned after demolishing several salmon, except the few faded blotches of blood that clung deep on his pale fur, and the scent of fish that unmistakably clung to him—neither of which bothered the cowboy very much. He slid down onto his belly, but kept his head raised and ears relaxed so as not to be caught totally unawares.