Redhawk Caldera Drive-thru

His son moved more slowly than a geriatric turtle, yet Peregrine had nothing but patience. His eyes remained fixed on the tiny puppy's back as he slugged forth. This time around, he wasn't obsessed about naming them (aside from the nicknames for reference), though he caught himself wondering about Hamburglar's eventual moniker. With that mask, was Raccoon (or maybe just Coon) inevitable? Wasn't that the name of one of Fox's relatives? His head tilted, though Peregrine couldn't remember.

Anyway, the fur color was all wrong. Everyone knew raccoon (why is spellcheck telling me raccoons isn't a word?) were gray with black markings. But the pup was beige. And trash pandas didn't have blocks stockings, did they? The father squinted thoughtfully, eyes still following Hamburglar. He had gone about one inch. His body had extended somewhat, squishy bits of puppy fat stretched out into a less round, more cylindrical shape.

"You remind me of a weasel," he murmured prophetically, then shook the thought from his head and stepped over the pup and into the den. He peered at him a moment longer, then turned his back on Hamburglar and sat, letting his tail fall over the pudgy whelp.