“Dogmeat,” Cooper whistled briefly. He was sat against a rock in the little camp, head down in concentration. He didn't look up from the sharpening of his knife as he called the dog to him. She always came, after all.

Except this time, apparently.

He looked up, squinting a little. The dog was lying their head on his companion's lap, looking him in the eye, as if to show that she had heard and simply chose not to listen.

“Dogmeat,” he called again. He never had to call twice. The damn thing wouldn't leave him alone, usually. The dog flicked her ear, glancing over, but didn’t move. He raised his brows. No way his dog was choosing them over him right now.