Let us suppose that, although very small, she's old enough to be weaned, and thus old enough to bound unsteadily after him, her tail wagging with a drunken sway.

"Szari," Sagramore says delightedly, dropping to a crouch, and she turns -- she doesn't know her name, but the tone of voice, encouraging and pitched with affection, gets her attention. "Szarkácske. Come here, little one. What a good girl." She pelts towards him instead.