Bright blue eyes narrowed a bit at the Poodle’s words, she
was coming to realize perhaps not all dogs were exactly kind.
The other was proof, despite how indirectly rude some of the
others words may be, they were quite toxic. The canine moved
to prop herself to sit on her hind legs, her frame leaning back
ever so slightly to allow a rather loud laugh to elevate from her
youthful vocal cords. Oh how humorous. “Oh dear, Georgette,
you’re quite the card.” Inhaling deeply, she took the few
seconds to properly gather herself before continuing. “You’re
dead, I’m afraid.” Quite stone cold, yes indeed the Poodle was.
Moving to stand on all fours, the Whippet tilted her head, her
smile not once ceasing to exist, especially not after the laugh
she was granted. “Are you at peace with your death, hm?”
This ethereal bubble of laughter, abruptly spilling out of a
muzzle bearing a hue reminiscent of frolicsome heralds of
springtime, seems to be inexplicable and even insulting.
After all, rightfully acquiring mementos of her conquests
is certainly no laughing matter! Yet, the comprehensible
elucidation hastily pursuing that feminine sound properly
justifies its departure as it indicates the presence of a most
humiliating misunderstanding. Unfortunately, where petite
glimmers of embarrassment should comfortably dwell, lie
detectable flickers of unadulterated mortification instead.
❝ Dead? What is the meaning of this? ❞
The notion that comes tumbling out next is absolutely
ridiculous, and naturally warrants the rather shameless
presentation of a response effortlessly reading of nothing
other than pure dissatisfaction. Has this stranger lost it?
❝ Of course not. Take me back this instant! ❞