No longer a puppy, it had still never occurred to Aesop that he wasn't a perfectly good lapdog (except when Dyson was telling him not to be), and he certainly didn't get the memo now. Instead he plonked himself on Snow, leaned past her to lick Regina in greeting, and then nuzzled at Snow worriedly with soft, inquiring wuffles.

Regina didn't have anything to add to the conversation that would make more sense than the dog. She just did the only thing a mother can do when their child is crying about something they can't fix: held on and made gently soothing sounds and gestures, while mentally arranging the things Snow would need when she did finally stop.