The shark, which is sitting there not really doing much of anything, sort of perks up at Spike's arrival. The blunt gray nose (flecked with a number of scars) snuffs at the air; the fat body rises off the ground on its stubby, tiny legs. Fishsticks takes some steps towards Spike and his Bag.
Sela looks up sharply, judging the distance between herself and the whistling... eh, whatever he is. "Yes! Good! Stop right there! I'm testing something!" she shouts back. "Go on Fishsticks! Get the bag with that yummy juicy meat! Good boy!"
The shark trundles forward. The brigadier plants her booted feet and wraps the leash around her forearm. The shark trundles.... and makes no progress, his short legs waggling in the air to a sort of comedic effect or horrific depending on personal tastes.
"HAHA," Sela says with a fist-pump into the air. "Fucking A! Good to know. Yeah, so, I'm the brigadier, but Sela's the name, you? Fishsticks, sit!"
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Sela looks up sharply, judging the distance between herself and the whistling... eh, whatever he is. "Yes! Good! Stop right there! I'm testing something!" she shouts back. "Go on Fishsticks! Get the bag with that yummy juicy meat! Good boy!"
The shark trundles forward. The brigadier plants her booted feet and wraps the leash around her forearm. The shark trundles.... and makes no progress, his short legs waggling in the air to a sort of comedic effect or horrific depending on personal tastes.
"HAHA," Sela says with a fist-pump into the air. "Fucking A! Good to know. Yeah, so, I'm the brigadier, but Sela's the name, you? Fishsticks, sit!"
The shark continues to futilely trundle in place.