Wick's hands awkwardly retract, his dog's tail wagging with too much energy. He should probably say sorry once more, for the trouble caused, but that dastardly question comes up and he never has a good answer for it. It's almost been a month, and he's yet to name it, but how could you blame John when he's only seen the dog a few times?
( Santino didn't really wait long ever since he'd come out of retirement-- accidentally )
"He doesn't have one," John states plainly, a little bit shamefully. He was never good at names, always let Helen do that for him, but now that she isn't here, well... yet to find anything that would fit. It didn't have one where he'd found it. Ever observant, the shadow casted by the crow catches his eye, and he looks up at it, watching it circle above. "Is that one yours?"
A mix of curiosity and wariness ( not being hunted, sure, but can't be too safe in a place like this; perhaps one day he will be able to switch it off in the back of his mind, like he used to ). The pit bull seems to take notice of it, goes to sniff her shoes, and then barks up at the sky. John whistles, snaps his fingers, and points by his side, not too unlike how one would shush a child being too noisy.
"Hey, come on boy." Dutifully, it sits by his side and quiets. The wagging has slowed, but doesn't seem to be coming to a stop anytime soon, eager to meet new friends, something that John was in dire need of ( especially now, especially here, where making friends didn't put a target on their heads-- as far as he knew, anyways ). "He wouldn't hurt a fly. He's just curious."
