Morningside Cuesta Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens..

He didn't rightly know what had drawn him back this way, but here he was — decently fed on a noontime's bounty gathered at a river henge, with residual pep in his step despite the lengthening shadows. Spring had indeed sprung, and with it came an unfurling of a great green carpet across everything he could spy. The hillside where Mink lingered was decorated with all sorts of colors and floral arrangements; he lingered with his snout inches away from a puff of dandelion for a moment, amused by how it seemed to sway with every tiny breath he took. One inhalation too many — and a tuft of dust or some such tickled at the inners of his nose, causing him to, of course, sneeze.

Mink held off for as long as he could. One eye squinting while his snout contorted and his head lifted up, up, up, as if he could escape the moment if he found the right altitude - and then came the boom. It was lively enough to carry across the rolling cuesta and startle a distant herd to lift their own heads in surprise; further on, a cacophony of bird-things exploded against the sky and winged away. As the moment concluded he looked at the passing shadow of this flock and with a sniff, began to stride along through the weeds again.

boom.
now what the hell was that?
he's ready for air raid sirens, a tank to come smashing in, a volcano vomiting fire and brimstone out into open air. he could've sworn the grass waved along with the sound, like some supersonic blast, that his ears popped.
but what he sees is not a military-grade aircraft, nor a big scary psychopath with a firearm as big as himself, but a lone man. yo, he calls out, eyes squinted against the sun. uh, you just cost me a meal. asshole. and at least two years off my life. 
it's almost comical, looking at whittaker, nothing but bones and peach fuzz, crossing his arms like he's got all the time and power in the world. if you were to mention that to him, he'd cock his head at you and tell you that pretending was everything.

This season, for all of its beauty and bounty, was his least favorite. It was difficult for him to determine what it was exactly that set him off about it, but there were a myriad of things. The too-bright sun, maybe; the way that every blade of grass, branch of tree, or clod of dirt seemed adamant about finding its way up his nose or down his throat, making the corners of his eyes burn and his nose drip on the best of days; the bipolar nature of the weather, going from cold-and-breezy to hot-and-humid to suprise! Snow! Sometimes all within the same day. Make up your mind.

At least today he wasn't oozing out of his nose - but the sneeze was just he beginning. If he didn't get a handle on it now he'd probably keep going, rattling off enough to give himself whiplash or at least a small concussion. The easy, breezy, beautiful weather served up a low-hanging smog of pollen particles that Mink had started out trying to avoid, but by now he'd resigned himself to the dreaded burning sensations, the itchy skin, and general lethargy that threatened to drown his usual enthusiasm if he let it. He wouldn't let it.

Then again, maybe the universe was really trying to cut him down today. He'd gone a few more strides before noticing that one of the deer he'd startled was still staring at him. He blinked through a haze of fluid building across his vision and paused mid-step, and settled first a raised forepaw and then the opposite hind limb against the grass. This deer had a pale face — and it was short. And as he squinted, Mink could make out just enough features to determine that this was not, in fact, some stupefied ungulate.

Whud? He balked at first.

They'd said something — but he had been too distracted by the staring. Swallowing a fresh wad of phlegm as he stood there, he wheezed, sniffled, and — ACHU! — Did a pretty good impression of a dunking bird toy, complete with splash zone.

nothing behind the eyes. a thousand-yard stare. or maybe it was tears from the pollen. whatever it was, whittaker was perfectly content to settle on the theory that this guy was a serious liability to himself and anybody within a 10 meter radius of him.
he sighs. he'd been doing that a lot recently.
christ, man. i mean— he leans back and braces himself, but it's too late.
ACHOO.
augh, fuck. he groans. i didn't know that rain was on the weather forecast today. he gingerly shakes himself from the fine mist of saliva the stranger had just expelled from his face like a geyser. let's get you the hell out of here dude. so you don't, i don't know, start a famine or something.
i'm sure the flowers are really goddamn grateful for the water, though.

It took a couple of tries but he managed a deep breath, and as he exhaled he deflated around it. He drooped like a wilting flower and when his head was lowered close to one foreleg, shifted enough to rub his eyes and blot his nose, knowing it was futile to try and stop the seasonal effects currently in play. Mink managed to clear one eye enough to get a proper look at the stranger — he looked thin, like, unhealthily so, but Mink wasn't the type to comment on stuff like that. He was probably a freshly dispersed kid.

As he raised his head, the boy commented further and Mink snorted a fresh breath in through his nose, which sounded blocked at this point. Great. I'mb nod sing, he poorly assured, Ids --- srrrrf --- ids dah polleng. 

He felt a fresh sneeze coming and was mindful enough in that moment to at least turn his head away. The motion twinged something in his neck though, so Mink more-or-less gagged on his own spit as a byproduct and rather than an explosive sneeze, he belched a cough. When that was over, he tried to rub his eyes against his nearest limb again. Nodding I cab do aboud id -- sorree.

Ugh, but it was the absolute pits. The sense of defeat finally overtook the vestiges of Mink's good cheer, and as he struggled for another breath his chest sagged, eyes drooped, and he became Eeyore's canine equivalent in full. His voice was already strained by the burn in his throat but now there was a dull quality to his tone; he took to enunciating deliberately to get his question out: You wudden happan da no, ahh, a fish? No, that wasn't the right word, um. Figgs. No, but almost there, come on buddy -- Sumding dad migh helb?

A fix. Damn phlegm messing with his phonemes.

all he'd gotten from that— and he'd had to really wring out his brain for it— was the word pollen. he deflates. could you really blame someone for having allergies?
he cringes and folds his ears back at the half-cough, half-belch. he didn't previously know such sounds could be emitted by a living organism. the more you know. christ, he repeats, but he's secretly thankful for the fact that he'd at least turned his face away. no, einstein. i mean, you're scaring all the food away.
the stranger droops and whittaker is struck by the most defeated and pitiful expression he'd ever seen on an adult male. taken aback, he clears his throat. oh, uh, fish, what? now that was a stroke of shakespearian genius. fix? he scoffs, looking away wide-eyed in disbelief. if he had hands, he'd be burying his face in them. try uh, tickling the roof of your mouth with your tongue. he gestures vaguely, no doubt providing the stranger with the clearest blueprint to a solution ever concieved.

Have you ever — and I mean ever — made your tongue itch? Or worse, the roof of your mouth? At least with fingers you can shove a digit in there and try to put an end to it. Mink tries the boy's suggestion after a beat, perhaps because he isn't quite sure what he means but, hey, he'll give it a shot. He wedges the back of his tongue to the roof of his mouth; his eyes remain deadpan but soon he's fixated on trying different spots and his expression purses, like he's thinking deeply. Its all very dramatic.

One of the attempts is more like the thinnest of swipes and it causes some kind of reaction - this itch, which spreads to the back of his throat and no matter what he does afterwards, the need to scratch and end the feeling makes Mink nearly swallow his own tongue. He gags, his eyes rolling in search of a spitoon or maybe a stick to chew on, because what the hell else can he do? It isn't a pleasant feeling for the minute or so that it persists, and when it finally goes away on its own he realizes, too, that he has at least stopped sneezing.

A ragged breath shudders through him - and then he coughs again, but lightly this time. And again. And -- you get the picture; it starts and just wont stop, but near eruption number eleven or twelve a chunk of a partially-digested fish head (complete with its own layer of off-green mucus) drops in for a visit. Cue another awkward stare — but at least Mink is breathing better now.