„Did I hear right?“ said Estelyn the sheepdog, using osanwë to communicate with her human friend across species boundaries. „Did she just call me a puppy? Me, a bitch grown & flowered (TM), and
mother of three?“
„Shush,“ said Pitchwife. „The lady meant no ill. Children will always be children to mothers - even godmothers. Believe me, I know what I‘m talking about! Now, why don‘t you go find some food, or someone to pet you? I‘m sure there‘ll be takers. But don‘t just nibble on any old pile o‘ bones you find lying around – they might be a new member!“
Estelyn (still the dog) took his suggestion and began to explore the ballroom, weaving through the guests and sniffing here & there as was her wont. At last she wound up in front of Oddwen and The KA and looked up at them with a friendly wag of her tail. „Arf!“ she said.
The cats had already vanished into the crowd by that time. The
red one had found a lintel to jump on, whence it surveyed the gathering with the air of a theatre critic, while the
grey one approached a gaily-dressed Noldo sitting all by himself and rubbed against his leg with a soft „Prr?“, its tail curled into a question-mark.
Pitchwife, meanwhile, having helped himself to a glass of Old Winyard and a lemba (and made a note to write to the Lady of Lórien at his earliest convenience), sauntered through the crowd, toasting and greeting all his friends of old, some of whom he had only met far from here in the intervening years, some not at all for a long time. He noted with great pleasure that the plague had not killed Lalaith this time (Maedhros or no Maedhros) and, having listened to her duet with Encai, said to the latter: „Hi, I‘m Pitchwife! Not sure we‘ve met in this place before, but you seem vaguely familiar. Something to do with horns, great horns of rust wildly blowing, I think?“