Sun Mote Copse You were dancing in your tube socks in our hotel room.

They stared at one another for a while, it felt like. Perplexed. He said nothing to her, and so Blackheart wondered if he truly was more of a dog than anything; her admittedly infrequent visits to local parks and such places with her man had given her very limited exposure to other dogs, and they rarely spoke to her. Using this as a reference point, she could only assume this was another lost creature, like herself. Except he seemed to comfortable here. He smelled of pinewood and silt, sunlight, dust, something sweeter too, which she could not place.

As he drew closer and sniffed the air she did the same - purposeful with every movement but guarded too, in case he did not appreciate her blocky face so close to his tapered snout. His whiskers trembled; Blackheart licked her lips and the tip of her tongue nearly touched his snout. She could see the once-torn flesh of his scars, now healed, and traced them with a flick of her eyes, then carefully probed at his cheek fur for more clues. There wasn't much. Why was he standing there so stiffly? His tail was up, his wild coat puffed, so she anticipated a play-bow, but nothing like that came.

Blackheart cleared her throat with a tiny cough, watching as the stranger's ears pivoted. Small ears, she noted. Smaller than a shepherd's, and triangular. Uhm, sorry for... Dropping in. Her voice didn't have the same tremble as when she'd first found herself with company, when the pale agouti had found her before; there was a strength to her voice this time, a deep masculine timbre. The corners of her mouth twitched but she did not smile, merely continued to watch him. Perhaps he was so intrigued because she had come tumbling out of nowhere - and that was fair.