Chapter Text
The sudden change from the shadows of night to the dark of the midday jungle was not lost on Vincent, nor was the sharp ringing that had begun to fade in his ears. Crawling tendrils of akulikuli snagged at the fur on his paws and whipped past his legs as he bounded toward a break in the jungle–his vision finally adjusted to the bright light up ahead, revealing a sunlit field crisscrossed with lines of hibiscus shrubs. Breaking through a tangle of kudzu vines at the edge of the treeline, Vincent burst out into the sunlight, squinting at the light that shone from beyond the distant mountains. His chest heaved in time with his panting, lolling tongue as he slowed to an exhausted trot, dull claws digging into the loam as he attempted to re-orient himself.
The lack of recognizable scents, the sudden change to daytime, and the absence of flaming arrows could only mean one thing–things had changed once more, and this time, Vincent felt he had been taken somewhere different than the rest of the survivors. His chest tightened at the realization that he couldn’t smell or see any of the survivors who had fled with him, but only for a moment–humans were smart, and his humans were some of the smartest and hardiest; a subtle feeling of relief settled in his pelt, the knowledge that the survivors would end up alright as they usually did.
There was no denying, however, that Vincent felt alone–even as macaques chattered gleefully from the jungle behind him, and the calls of horn-bills and honey-creepers echoed from all directions even above the subtle breeze. Hot, fruit-scented wind ruffled his short fur, and Vincent suddenly realized that the fur typically weighed down by his collar was now being tousled freely by the breeze–the familiar weight around his neck was indeed gone. Vincent froze, trying to remember where he’d last had it; it must have been the beach, he had felt it sway and bounce around his broad neck as he leapt away from the soaring flames.
But if I were to check the beach now, whenever I am, I know it wouldn’t be there. Vincent couldn’t say he thoroughly understood the sudden changes that afflicted him and his people, accompanied by a great flash of light and a high-pitched sound, but he understood that it was a mechanic by which he and the human survivors were misplaced in time and space. His floppy ears could pick up the subtle beginnings of the deafening ring a few minutes before it would happen, but he had little ability to warn them, and no way at all of telling where or when they would end up. Anxiety gripped his heart like teeth around a bone, making the labrador stiffen. It must be in his nature, he often surmised, to feel lost and untethered when not around humans–that was the nature of a dog, was it not?
On the island, though, the feeling of being untethered rarely lasted–such as the first time he awoke in the jungle, shivering and half-inside his transport cage, he recognized the scent and voice of Christian Shephard and felt as though he needed to do what he said. Jack’s sire was an ominous and eerie presence to Vincent, but receiving an order to wake Jack and therefore help someone gave him a sense of purpose. Since then, it had not just been Christian whose orders drew him one way or another.
It was more often a feeling, rather than a person, but a feeling much stronger than any voiced command–Vincent assumed this was what Locke experienced when receiving a message from the Island. John Locke treated him like more than a normal dog, but Vincent wished there was a way they could converse on the same level; even Locke may not believe what Vincent has come to see and know since coming to the island.
It was that subtle, magnetic draw toward one part of the island that comforted Vincent as he stood, lost and panting in the midday sun, the scent of the flaming arrows still clinging to his nose. The fur along his back lay flat, and Vincent calmly followed the mountain ridges on the horizon, looking for the place that was calling to him. Despite the obvious signs that he was separated from his current group, that didn’t mean that there weren’t people to see–his first decision was to look for a sign of civilization. With a subtle, but reassuring purpose, Vincent heaved a deep breath, put his head down, and began trotting alongside a row of hedges, toward the mountains.
Luckily, it did not take long to find a sign of civilization–Vincent’s trot was quickly interrupted by a sudden grab and twist of his forepaw. Not sudden enough to actually twist the muscle, but enough to trip him. Vincent yelped in surprise, jerking his forepaw out of the hole in the ground it had fallen into and clumsily regaining his footing. As he did so, he gave a tentative sniff to the hole to assure himself that it didn’t belong to a snake. As he lowered his head to the ground, he could see a familiar white ball sitting inside. Vincent stood and backed up, looking around and quickly catching sight of a similar hole on a hill further south. The golf course, I’m at the golf course.
For whatever reason, Vincent was doubtful that the rest of the survivors ended up in what seemed to be the present-day–but he was relieved to have a familiar landmark, and a good idea of where he was. His visits to the golf course were often alongside Walt, where he would sit beside his master and focus very hard on not chasing the ball every time it flew by. The field was empty now, and the markers that had been used as flags for each hole were either gone or had been knocked over. This was not the case in the last place they had flashed from, where this area had simply been a field. The best place to go from here, Vincent decided, would be the camp set on the beach.
If I’m remembering correctly, there should be a hill nearby where I can get a good view–through that tangle of kudzu on the other side of the field and right up around where the cave camp was.
Vincent hardly considered himself a woodsman, mostly due to the fact that he was a dog–but Locke’s monologues both to himself and to the other survivors regarding being outdoors were quite useful–alongside that, Vincent was lucky to be equipped with scent and hearing that the humans were unfortunate not to have. With such equipment at hand, as well as a desire to get out of direct sunlight, Vincent continued toward where the land dipped down into a swath of Kudzu vines, criss-crossing between two trees like power lines between telephone poles.
Yes, when compared to the human survivors, Vincent felt like he had a leg up on jungle survival. The ability to catch food with one’s teeth and eat it without cooking it was useful–though the skill needed for that was one he had only barely developed. But in the grand scheme of the island’s creatures, Vincent was very aware that he was clumsy and inexperienced–worse than that, he was obvious as an outsider, something that could make him a target.
His human survivors must often feel the same way, having human counterparts that have made a living here, that know how to live here, and look at their domesticated counterparts with ire. Vincent shivers to recall the beady, pinprick glares of the wild jackals he’d encountered here, and the ire they seemed to hold toward him. Though he knew they were both canines, it was obvious they were different, and he was not welcome with them. He wondered if that was how Juliet felt, whether with her own people or amongst Vincent and the survivors.
Nosing aside some of the less-tangled vines, Vincent ducked under a low-hanging branch and took high steps over some thorny ground cover, relishing as his muzzle was bathed in cool shadow and his nose was greeted with the wet, earthy smell of the jungle once more. Careful not to catch his tail-fur on any stray branches, he picked his paws up high and maneuvered to the nearest area of clear ground–some churned loam around the giant, gnarled roots of a Kapok tree. Scanning the dripping leaves and swaying underbrush, Vincent spotted a path of exposed rock that jutted clumsily in and out of a hill, leading upwards. Though he knew it was rather useless, he raised his muzzle to the air and searched for any familiar scents–his heart jumped as he recognized Sawyer’s, but quickly realized that it was a very stale scent. At least that confirmed the time period in which he was in, and solidified his hope of the beach camp at least existing, if not being populated.
With newfound resolve, Vincent padded toward the rocky slope and made his way up as carefully as possible, dull claws and sore pads slipping and scrabbling on the mossy rocks, slick with a layer of condensation and covered in slippery little vines. At some points, the slope was so steep that Vincent had to jut his neck upward and sink his teeth into a vine jutting out of the slope, using it to pull himself up to the next solid foothold. He could only imagine how difficult this climb must be for a biped with no claws. Finally, the sharp rocks began to even into a shambled path, and the steep slope evened. Vincent was glad to feel his paws sink into damp loam and wet leaf-cover as he took a moment to recuperate from the climb. His ears perked as a cursory glance around revealed an outlook where the trees thinned and he could look down below.
Though Vincent, and even the survivors, did not have a name for the mountains and ridges that were visible to them, there were some peaks that had become recognizable over time. Vincent shouldered past the broad leaves of a Monstera plant and nosed aside a leafy fern as he approached the overlook. He had just climbed up from the golf course, meaning that the hill Boone had fallen from should be in the distance behind him as he looked out toward the rest of the west mountains–But it wasn’t behind him.
Vincent’s tail abruptly froze mid-wag as he realized that the entire west mountain range was on the distant horizon, way farther than he would have been able to walk. The ridge upon which the other plane had been perched was far below him, and beyond that–the golf course. Vincent’s eyes flickered back and forth in disbelief–the place he had just come from was now a several hours walk west after a few minutes of climbing a slope. Vincent turned around and bounded back to the slope he had climbed. He could distinctly see the final vine he had sunk his teeth into to haul his way uphill, he ran towards it to peer over the edge of the hill–and then skidded to an abrupt halt.
There was no steep rocky path beyond the exposed vine, but a steep, rocky cliff face, where water trickled from an unseen source and poured several meters down into a stream that had definitely not been there before. Vincent stared in awe at the waterfall, then looked back over his shoulder at the impossible view of the mountains, and then stared at the waterfall again. His jaw remained slack and eyes wide and round with disbelief as he took a few tentative pawsteps back from the edge. How had he climbed a hill and ended up suddenly on the entire other side of the island? To say that the island was strange and confusing was an understatement, and it certainly wasn’t easy to map or navigate, but what had just happened was simply impossible. Not that the island was stranger to impossible things.
But the feeling Vincent had, of being needed somewhere , comforted him once more. His only explanation–the only one he had, and therefore the only one he would believe–was that the island had simply taken him where he needed to be. The beach camp seemed to be out of the question, then–but that was fine, if he was needed elsewhere. Still, Vincent found himself padding back to the outlook, peering out from the ferns at the mountains to the west. His eyes followed the tallest ridge, down to the smallest one, down to where the foothills led to the beach. He craned his neck and followed the shoreline, looking for signs of civilization. He backed up, turned, and padded to another view of the nearest beach. Nosing his way between the roots of a banyan, his gaze picked up where it left off and tracked the seemingly empty, rocky shore, all the way down. Vincent’s ears perked as he realized the large, sandstone-colored rock on the shore closest to his paws was not a rock, but a structure–a destroyed one, but one built by humans, nonetheless. It wasn’t something he’d ever seen before, nor was it sculpted into any easily identifiable shape.
Vincent’s excitement and relief only grew when he spotted motion in the waves just beyond the structure–what looked like a disturbance in the seafoam at first revealed itself to be a figure, a man, standing knee-deep in the waves. That feeling in his chest, the need, the draw to be somewhere and do something, swelled. His destination set, Vincent began looking for the best way down to the shore.
Vincent took in a deep breath of salt-tinged air, feeling comforted by the saline burning in his nose. The jungle had always felt noisy and busy to Vincent, between the rough, barking hollers of apes, the chattering of monkeys, and the twitters and warbles of songbirds–and of course, the laughing, cackling howls of jackals at night–the ambience of the beach was a welcome relief. Though the crashing of the waves were often interrupted by the harsh call of a tern overhead, or the distant bark of a seal (a creature Vincent had never really been keen on meeting– despite their friendly faces, their bark was raucous and seemed quite threatening)–the labrador thought there was no place better for a relaxing stroll than the beach. He didn’t quite mind the hot sun here, not while the cool breeze swept in from the coast and tousled his floppy ears and shaggy tail.
A sudden gush of cool, salty water surrounded his paws, peeling back to reveal the edges of seashells that had been hidden beneath the wet sand. During the early days after the crash, when he lived with the survivors, he would often walk the shores in the mornings. If he was lucky, he would see nests dug into the upper beach and covered with care, now stirring with hatching eggs–if he was even luckier, he would see the baby sea turtles emerge and begin their trek across the shore, toward the beckoning waves. More than a few times Vincent had stopped to watch over them and wish them luck on their journey to the sea, or to nose one over that had accidentally flipped onto its back.
Another wave rushed past his ankles, bubbling into a thin white line a few pawsteps up the beach before starting to recede. Vincent watched over his shoulder as his pawsteps in the sand mixed with the retreating water and melted into the seafoam. The sound of water crashing and waves rolling further up ahead drew his attention back to the large, imposing structure further up the beach.
It was undoubtedly human-ish in form–or it had been at one point; the cracks and crevices and remains of crumbling debris hinted that what had been there previously had been destroyed. What remained was still enormous, at least to a dog–it was taller than the houses in the Barracks, perhaps even twice as tall; Vincent marveled at how massive it must have been before its destruction. It looked very out of place on a tropical beach with no other signs of civilization, that is, except for a log and a makeshift fire sitting next to it. Vincent’s gaze trailed from the fire pit to its apparent owner, a man standing knee-deep in the waves, holding a net.
After a tentative sniff of the air, Vincent was aware this man’s scent was familiar to him, but he was very sure he had never met him before. He had short, shaggy blonde hair and blue eyes, squinted against the sun as he cast out the net once more, his white cloth robe catching the crest of a larger wave and swaying with the motion of the water. The stranger was too focused on fishing to notice him–even still, Vincent slowed his approach and reminded himself to be cautious. He had only ever met one person on this island who was decidedly not a dog person–that person being Ben–but there was no guarantee this man wouldn’t mistake him as aggressive. The stranger drew in his net a final time, raising it out of the way of a particularly crested wave and revealing a small weight in the bottom of the handmade apparatus–a successful catch. The wave rolled past the man and onto the shore, where Vincent squinted as it broke the shore and sprayed into the air, a few stray droplets landing on his nose. The dog retreated to the nearest comfortable place, which happened to be the log that sat opposite the makeshift fire pit.
Still unsure of how welcome his presence would be, Vincent cautiously laid beside the log, resting his chin on the surface of its bark and heaving a tired breath after his long walk, still feeling wet sand between his paw pads. The blonde stranger wrung out the empty portion of the net, before backing up a few steps and turning around to return to the beach–his eyes landed on Vincent briefly, then glanced away, and then did a sudden double take, standing in place for a moment before calmly approaching.
Vincent raised his ears and gave a lazy wag of his tail to signify that he was friendly; he couldn’t help gazing at the tasty fish the man had caught and was bringing back. Once the stranger’s face was close enough to be readable, Vincent realized there was familiarity in his eyes, although there was a fair amount of confusion as well. That feeling stirred in his chest again, the one that told him he needed to be somewhere and do something–this was that something, he surmised.
“Hello, Vincent.” Though he spotted recognition in the man’s eyes, Vincent’s ears perked in surprise at the sound of his name. He knows me? At least, he knows my name. Vincent raised his head and gave a lazy thump of his tail against the sand, trying to implore the stranger with his eyes to give further explanation.
The man brushed some sand off of his wet cloak and got down on one knee, unceremoniously freeing the fish from its net by dumping it on a flat rock. He produced a knife from a pocket Vincent must not have spotted, and quickly put an end to the fish’ struggles for air.
“You’re a long ways away from your people,” the man noted casually. Vincent searched his expression for anything meaningful. This man is not an Other, and most certainly isn’t one of my people. But he knows who I am, he knows my name, and knows where I’m supposed to be and where I’m supposed to be with.
Where are your people? Vincent asked back with a tip of his head, but the man either didn’t catch or decided not to respond to his nonverbal inquiry. Instead, he set about preparing the fish, which Vincent couldn’t help watching with hunger. Vincent in no way considered himself a hunter, but need had driven him to chase rabbits and chevrotains on more than one occasion.
Off of the island, he would chase squirrels, or even cats, if given the chance–but he wasn’t like he was now, he didn’t think about his actions–or really think at all. His level of consciousness off-island remained fuzzy in his memories; all he could really gather was that waking up in the jungle felt like he could finally use his brain for the first time, finally think and reason in a way he knew was different than before.
Such a change in consciousness brought about some qualms with the need to chase down and eat another living creature, but his short time on the island had taught Vincent that survival of the fittest often meant striking down the weak for the sake of his own survival. Though he made a conscious choice to snuff the life of another, smaller creature, he knew he never did it out of malice. His desire to chase and even catch squirrels off the island would probably have lead to a clumsy toothing of the poor animal in question, but without thought for what the animal’s body would go to, or even why he felt driven to do such a thing–now, he knows the choice to kill another animal, even for survival, is one that must be made respectfully.
He often wonders if humans have the same dilemma–do they feel urges to kill just for sport? That’s a silly question, Vincent realizes, thinking of the bodies washed up on the island with Ethan’s broad hand prints around their broken necks. But nothing is ever quite so black and white on the island–with humans, survival isn’t just about their next meal.
“The best thing about living here,” the man suddenly began, as though he felt the lack of conversation needed to be filled, even though Vincent was not himself a creature capable of speech, “is everything is in one place. The beach, a great view, good food–not the best conversation, though.”
I’d imagine as much , Vincent thought back in reply, looking around the very empty beach. How could this man be so familiar to him if it seemed he didn’t often leave his beach? There was a lull in the conversation as the fish was prepared, and the fire was finally lit to cook it. The man didn’t look at him for the entirety of it, his face remaining unreadable. Vincent waited patiently.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m about as confused as you are, right now,” He nodded vaguely in the dog’s direction, a slight nervous smile playing on his lips. “As to how you got here, I mean.”
I’m more confused as to how I know you, and how you know me. But suddenly ending up on the other side of the island was unsettling, I guess. If the Island, or whatever else, had drawn him here, it wasn’t through this man.
Once satisfied with the fish cooking over the fire, the man sat back on his haunches in the sand, and looked at Vincent for the first time since he’d come in from the water. Yes, he did indeed seem confused, a frown across his face as he looked the dog up and down. Vincent looked him up and down as well, but kept his ears perked amicably.
“You had a collar, didn’t you?” The man tipped his head to one side, voice somewhat nervous–this was a first for Vincent, as most people didn’t struggle having small talk with a dog.
I did. I was hoping maybe you’d know something about that, but I guess not. Vincent motioned southward down the beach with his muzzle, and then tried his best to imitate a human shrug (which was rather unsuccessful.) The man’s eyes widened, but only barely–Vincent’s understanding of human speech was only slightly a shock to him. Duly noted.
“Ah,” he licked his lips nervously, eyes flickering to the fish and then back to Vincent, “I guess that makes you free, then? No collar, no master.” It’s an attempt at a joke, Vincent realizes. The man sighs and reaches forward to adjust the fish as it cooks, the delectable scent filling the salt-tinged air. He smiles at his own remark, then shakes his head.
“I know it doesn’t really work like that, though. The collar is only a symbol.” Vincent would nod if he knew he could get the gesture down–humans made bobbing their head up and down look more like a gesture and less like a sudden movement in a way that Vincent wasn’t entirely sure how to replicate. Not yet, at least.
But it was true. Vincent could feel the sea breeze tousle the fur on his neck that had been packed down under the collar, could feel the absence of its weight and sound whenever he breathed. But it did not make him a free dog, such as breaking free of Walt’s leash didn’t make him a free dog. If he was a trapped dog, a dog kept against his will, then maybe, but to Vincent, the collar was more meaningful to humans than to him, although it was an item he had come to find comfort in.
“But even then, I guess you still miss it. You’ve been wearing it for a while–even without what it represents, it’s sentimental. I understand.” The stranger went on, absentmindedly adjusting the fish as it continued to cook, the scales darkening and the smell of delicious food becoming ever stronger. Vincent licked his lips in an attempt to stop himself from overly salivating, which he assumed would be a rather rude gesture in conversation.
It came from someone I love, of course it’s sentimental. It’s meaningful to me because it was meaningful to him, really.
Since coming to right after the crash, Vincent had learned that symbols and sentiments were incredibly important to humans–Kate’s toy that looked like a small airplane, the knives that Locke kept, Sawyer’s letter–it wasn’t just about their purpose, it wasn’t just about how they got the item, but what it meant to them. Such a thing would have been beyond Vincent off-island, but now he has begun to grasp why these things were so important–it was so clear to him here that he wondered why he couldn’t grasp it off-island. A lack of upper consciousness, he assumed. But it made a lot of things make more sense.
Vincent realized that Jacob had been nervously stroking the collar of his white canvas cloak, rubbing it absentmindedly between his thumb and forefinger. The frayed threads and uneven stitching hinted that it was handmade. Vincent gestured as best he could to the cloak with a silent question, is that meaningful to you?
The stranger stared at him confusedly for a brief moment, before following Vincent’s gaze to his nervous grasp on the fabric. “Ah,” he began tentatively, as if only barely understanding what he meant. “I made it myself, I suppose you could say that means it has some sentiment. But, it’s just clothes to me, it’s not meaningful in the same way as a collar.”
Vincent wasn’t sure he had correctly asked the question or understood the answer, but such was the ways of human-animal communication. Walt had always been the best at understanding, even though their time together with Vincent’s higher level of consciousness had been short. It was clear he was desperate for someone to talk to, someone to understand what it felt like not to be understood–Vincent was glad he could be that for Walt as long as he could.
Shannon was good at understanding as well. Outwardly, the survivors considered her chatty, gossipy, “bitchy,”–but when she was alone with Vincent, it was clear she wasn’t used to speaking to someone who understood her. Vincent wondered what it was like for her, growing up–did she have to vie for attention as a child by acting out or being brash? Was that how she assured herself among her peers? But despite what other people thought of her, she listened , she wanted to be spoken to, she wanted to understand and connect–Vincent was worried at first that she’d be put off by his understanding, and even if she didn’t fully grasp how much he understood, she seemed to find comfort in talking to him.
Vincent felt a pang of grief in his chest–he could never feel that Shannon’s death could have been prevented by anyone else other than him, the person he felt he had a responsibility to protect. But that couldn’t be changed now. And such was the way of the Island–people are given, and taken away. It happens for a reason, everything does–and the resulting pain and grief are not simply a byproduct, but messages, tools, a way to become something different, something better.
Vincent’s ears perked as he realized the fire had been doused while he was lost in thought, and the filet was deposited back onto the rock.
“Consider this an apology for the strife your people have been through recently–and compensation for whatever trouble has caused you to end up here. You can probably tell I’m not the best at conversation, nor introductions, but I’d like to think of myself as generous, if nothing else.” Does this mean I’m getting food? Yes, yes it does! Vincent’s heart leapt, as did his stomach–the implications of the stranger’s words could be thought about later, for now he was happy to scarf down the half of the fish he had been presented with, tail thumping happily against the sand.
The stranger had joined him on the log, taking his own share of the fish. The two of them ate in silence. Vincent, being a large dog with a large mouth and an even larger appetite, finished first, and couldn’t resist the urge to animalistically lick up his portion of the rock where the feast had been set out–though in the back of his mind he knew it was considered rude in human standards. The stranger, however, didn’t seem to mind. Once finished, he licked his hands clean, wiped them on his cloak, and then leaned back.
“Since I know your name, I suppose it’s only fair you know mine,” I won’t disagree with that. Vincent thought, looking up at the blonde man. “My name is Jacob.”
Vincent’s round, brown eyes widened, a realization suddenly coming to the forefront of his mind. He’d heard that name before–from the Others, from Ben, from Richard, from Locke, even. Who exactly Jacob was seemed a mystery to Vincent, as he often made little note of when he heard the name in passing.
But what Vincent did know was that on the island, Jacob was a person of power; it was Jacob’s list who decided who lived and died, and Jacob’s word that decided what the Others’ intentions were. This man, Jacob, had control over the fate of the people on the island, including the survivors. Vincent blinked, not entirely sure what to do with this information.
The idea that the feeling in his chest that drew him to places and people on the island was the result of Jacob’s will suddenly crossed his mind– But how is that possible? He seems confused at how I was even able to find him, let alone what I can do for him. Though this didn’t exactly come as a shock to Vincent–he’d always felt that, as superstitious as it sounded, the Island was the one behind his mysterious callings. But why Jacob? Vincent wasn’t going to deny an opportunity to learn about him, though, and what control he had over the safety and wellbeing of the survivors. That, and Vincent couldn’t deny he was curious, as he was with every human, to know what they were like and what motivated them.
Off-island, his need to meet and befriend humans and other dogs came from an instinct to be social and friendly, but now he found himself more social out of curiosity. Since coming to, he’d gained a fascination with how the human mind worked, how his mind worked. And though Vincent couldn’t say he understood philosophy or human psychology on even a surface level, he found it fulfilling to learn.
His strange draw to the man aside, and disregarding his position, Jacob had a certain aura about him–Vincent would hesitate to call it lonely, but it was unsure, to say the least. As it seemed, he was in a completely different time and place than the survivors he had been traveling with and protecting, maybe this was why.
Vincent followed Jacob’s gaze to the horizon, where the waves had begun to recede and each splash of water became less explosive, simply dragging calmly against the wet sand and pulling the shoreline further down the beach. Jacob stole a glance at him out of the corner of his eye–seemingly an unsure one–though Vincent didn’t let it show that he noticed.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m out of fish for the day,” Jacob held up his hands as if to show that they were empty, “Sorry, Vincent, but I don’t have any more food for you.”
I know, that’s not what I’m here for, but I was pretty happy to have it. Vincent tried to signal this to Jacob with a long glance. Jacob only tipped his head in confusion, looking back. Vincent tried to assure him that he was here for company, rather than food, with a lazy thump of his tail.
“Or, I guess you want to stick around. I think you’ll find I’m not really all that interesting, though,” I don’t mind. There was another silence, before Jacob seemed to get the message. He nodded slowly, putting his hands on his knees and pushing himself up, dusting sand off of his cloak. “You like walks?”
I’m a dog, Vincent responded wryly, of course I like walks. Outwardly, he expressed his interest by standing and shaking the sand from his pelt, tail swinging back and forth.