Wheeling Gull Isle heart made of glass, my mind of stone

He caught his breath and stared some more, as her long black muzzle almost-but-not-quite reached out in connection with his paw. His statue impression was growing less and less convincing, though, especially since his tail was waving in wider and wilder arcs with every passing beat, as if it had a mind of its own that like a sticky, overly-curious toddler was simply unable to continue the act any longer.

There was sand all up and down one angle of his radius now, as well as on his paw—yeah, good jerb thar, Drift—but he was distracted from the mildly niggling gritty sensation that prickled at his fur by the infinitely more enticing sight of the strange girl before him sinking her own forelegs down toward the sand. Driftwood's neck arched up playfully as his tail continued to wiggle strange sigils in the air; his voice was a much more enthusiastic full-voiced WOOF this time that boomed forth at a slightly louder volume than he'd quite planned for. Driftwood blinked and rocked back on his feet just a titch in surprise, but hardly hesitated a moment this time. His paw swooped forth with a much swifter and more self-assured motion this time as it left a small comet trail of wet particles in its wake. He bounced forward to give the lady a playful but clumsy bop on the nose; the shining black beacon couldn't escape his clutches for long, oh no it could not! He wasn't quite so uncouth as to attempt a "boop" noise to accompany it, but it was a little tempting, one had to admit.