The beast lunges for her, open-mouthed, and Häti twists out of the way with a yelp— but teeth do not meet flesh. She makes note of this mercy with a sly glance, but obeys and trots a few body lengths away. "I certainly don't want what's in your mouth, you big lug. Not after you've drooled all over it." She falls to a seated position, one dainty paw wiping furiously at her drool-speckled face. Disgusting— she should bite back, grab that thing by the ears and pull! But she restrains herself. There is benefit to patience, yes.

Silence stretches tense and taut between them, broken only by the nauseating slurp, crunch of teeth and tongue against bloated whale flesh. Finally the coyote breaks it.

...What's a seal?" The word conjures images of something big, weighty. Round, maybe, and long-legged. One ear flicks, a string of saliva hanging from it, and Häti (almost frantically) bats at it with her foot. Gross. She makes her displeasure known with a sharp exhale.