derp.
The silver-shaded coyote was one to smoke on occasion, though she had never made it a heavy habit. For one thing, she had no reliable resource for the tobacco-stuff, and for another, since discovering her morning toke ritual, she saw little need to smoke cigarettes. After all, they provided none of the arthritic relief and other benefits the other stuff did; she knew that well enough. Even so, she surely was not the kind of canine to berate another for such choices. Amos's smoking did not effect her, and so she saw no reason to speak out against it.
At the grizzled man's slow drawl, the hybrid smiled. His accented words flowed slow and steady from his muzzle, not so much marred as it was uplifted by the strange accent. It was similar to Cass's speech, but with a far deeper twang to it. Likely Amos's accent was Cassius's own, only unspoiled. “Just part of getting old, huh? Some mornings I wake up and I can't hardly move,” the coyote admitted, settling down to the porch beside him. Her four-legged form had no use for a chair, and she certainly would not have wanted for Amos to vacate his seat for her. “Doing fine today. Yourself?” she asked, the sable tip of her tail wavering in appreciation of the bow and question.
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