Rosewater Oasis The mystery of life isn't a problem to solve, but a reality to experience.

@Tumbleweed

A land of dunes. Of deep, warm sands. A place much like home. Such was favored by the desert man.
Perusing the distance, he searched for familiarity. Water, perhaps. Or someone who might lead him to it. For in these dry conditions, a travelers thirst was never fully quenched.

The mirage at the horizon seldom ever lied to him. And gazing out from his favourite viewpoint beneath the fronds of one of the palms, he had been scratching lines into the sand, in categories, when he glanced up to check the mirage as if scanning an ocean for any sign of a ship. He lived on an island of water, after all, in a sea of sand. The stranger went unnoticed for two routine checks, and it was only when Tumbleweed looked up a third time and realized that the pale, beige canine had managed to come much closer than most before he sent up one quick yip! 

In the coyfolk way of letting the others nearby know that another approached. 

He dashed the sand away, erasing the lines where he had been counting, calculating, and stood to approach the stranger, allowing himself to become a living, moving piece of the environment separate from the Oasis. to prove its existence. 

Tumbleweed knew the stagger of the desperate, and it did not seem to affect the stranger, whose path was true and steady. A natural, with sand-legs primed for dunes and for long hard travel over shifting footing. He called out with a chuff, so the man would know he was not being warded off.

He had not thought it would be so, but there was, in fact, another who tread these lands. Much like him, with the stature of a coyote's nature. Smaller, but pure.
When a chuff sounded, it was taken as an invitation. The sand toned man drew closer, nose searching the stranger as he soon was in range to collect the scent. 
They smelled of this land. They had been here for many days, and perhaps would not leave. He wondered, now. Ya smell of this place. D'ya live here, awr pass through?

In the other's steadfast nature, he saw a glimpse of what he prized in a meet-cute. The man was healthy, calm, and approached with a courteous trust that was not ill-placed. Tumbleweed welcomed the stranger's investigation, sniffing the other in return and finding that he came to the same conclusion. This was a sandstrider, much like himself, albeit perhaps not in title. 

The twang of the stranger's voice was unexpected, but appreciated with a lifting of his eyebrows and a light squint. He wondered where the other had come from- all directions seemed to have myriad of different accents and colloquialisms. He nodded. "That I do. I'm Tumbleweed, and this is Rosewater," He said, gesturing toward the oasis, moving aside in such a manner that the other could move forward to drink, if he chose.

Tumbleweed. What an ironic name. He may have almost slipped a chuckle, but was quick to catch himself.
Nice ta meet ya. A rumble of deep baritone; a greeting of sincerity, in the best way he could give. I was given the name Warrigal, but most just call me Dingo. Both meant the same, but the latter was simply easier.
The offer to drink was evident when the man stepped aside; and yet, Dingo felt bashful accepting so eagerly. Hope ya don't mind me takin' a swig of yah wader. A note of humbleness, before Dingo strode forward and dipped his muzzle down to take a drink. 
Once he'd drank enough to cease his thirst, for now, he turned back the oasis man. So how long you been ahround, 'ere? Rosewater, as ya call it?