Sitting back down, Amos agreed to her age grievances with a laugh. Time was a savage thing, whisking away youth and leaving fragile bones and aching backs. Getting old was no fun. "Fahne as cream gr'vy." He replied to her answer, before returning the cigarette to the edge of his lips and drawing in another lungful. It felt good, to feel how the smoke filled his lungs.
That was one thing that had never changed, Amos' addiction to cigarettes. He'd been but a whippersnapper on the shoot, in a small burg in the middle of nowhere. His first pack he'd found underneath a bridge, tucked in an rotting cloth backpack. Since then, the old coyote had always smoked.
There were so many things that had changed, though. Closing his eyes and letting out a deep breathe laced with smoke, Amos picked through the memories. "Whay, way back when," the old coyote shared, the corners of his mouth curled up, "Ah use tah be quite the dancah. Whay, ah'd 'ave me a 'og killin' tahme, doin' thah squah dance with mah lovely mate."
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