"Guard our names?" comes her voice, ruddy and wholly befuddled at the mere idea. Brows, though white on white, raise and crease her sloped forehead, giving the little scrap of fur a sideye. "Naw. I just . . . " Socially, the bear's utterly inept, dull to the more pointed topics of conversation. Her mind's gone and glossed over the request for her name. "Well 'äti, 'm Mugrind." It's a symphonic name, turned guttural by that harsh accent she bears like teeth. "Don't thinks I got me's any sticks up there, but who knows!" ANother low, whooping laugh, more to herself than to the coyote.
"So why's you followin' me?"