she pouts as if offended.

oh, but then they're left with nothing to show how pretty they are. what was a woman without her looks? how can you tell which ones appeal?

they talk. they leave the lakeshore. sancha is relieved to no longer trudge through infirm earth. she wipes her paws on the grass - makes a displeased sound to see how much remained in the nooks of her new skin. perhaps later she'd pick through in detail. if the dream lasted so long.

her wrinkles deepen as her guide inspects every trace. every dropping. she stands maybe fifty piedi away as the great lion goes on to - in the exact manner of a tomcat - urinate on the unknown specimen of tree.

her expression is many lines of distaste.

she reminds herself that he is, after all, an animal.

then she remembers she is animal too.

fixing her shoulders and head in a squared stance, sancha swaggers over to the same tree. it is an over-exaggerated way to move. once at it, she shuffles until she is parallel to the clear part of the trunk. one hind leg is placed on the bark.

with a sound of focused effort, she lets out a short sprinkle of yellow.

somehow, turning around to see the tiny mark is more embarrassing than having preformed the act.

she hopes this'll be the part she forgets upon waking.