Barrow Fields i would ask, almost insist, on treating you kind and fair

She turned her head and scrunched her muzzle, a qualmish "blehhh," trundling from her crop as he spat the muskrat onto the soil, its slimy fur slopping from the glove of his maw. It laid in a heap now, wafting an unfamiliar scent that she sampled with an extension of her nose and quaver of nostrils.

The male began to say a word, her eyebrows lifting in anticipation for knowledge about this unfortunate artifact of God's despair, presumably after he ran out of things to design. Perhaps he'd have been better off with a ghostwriter for this travesty in particular. 

In his favor, Tachyon's fib and consequent misrepresentation of the creature flew right over her head, she would not have known a "muskrat" from a "mushpig" any better than man would know Adam from Eve. The word, however, did not make the thing look anymore palatable. Lusca gave a tilt of her head. "Mushpig." She repeated, knitting her eyebrows as she examined its undignified, raggedy carcass. From a distance, of course. She enjoyed herself some wild boar, but the prefix "mush" understandably gave her pause.

"Hm. You better taste it first." She suggested. "You know. In case it's tainted meat." Tacked on as a second thought –– Lusca gurned with queasy reluctance.