I'm Not a Cynic

Clouse's paws hit the cold, frothy water and at last he was pulled from his reverie and back into the now. His muzzle wrinkled with distaste as the sand slowly filled the spaces between his digits and he backed away from the ebbing edge. This was only moments before the sea's soundtrack was disrupted by the sound of his own name. The voice was as immediately recognizable as his father's had been, but this time the six month old didn't have to wonder if he was hearing things or not. His big sister was right in front of him, paddling enthusiastically toward him.

His ears flew backward and his jaw dropped, gaping for a moment as though he were going to speak back. Then, and instantaneously feeling guilty for it, Clouse whipped clear around and set off at a dead run for the forest.