Shimmering hair floats in the moist air blowing in from over the water.  It drifts in complicated
patterns, tentacle-like, embracing her limbs.  Her walk is an exuberant bounce, energy and
enthusiasm saying far more about how much she has missed Crichton than her expression or the
noises she is making can ever convey.  

John greets her with a hug, grinning with a simple delight he has seldom expressed in all his cycles
aboard Moya.  

Aeryn watches, both fascinated and cautious.  “That’s not a cat.”

He kneels down to pat the creature.  “No.  This is a dog -- a golden retriever.”  


                                                        
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