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When the stranger tickled him (that was not his intention, of course, but the little guy here is very ticklish), Peter giggled and fell to his side, with his short legs flailing in the air. He then looked the older one in the eye over his shoulder and beamed at him, not understanding a single word he had said, nor sensing the worry in his voice. 

"Matherf-a-a-a-acking shit!" he repeated, eying the russet wolf innocently and wondering, why he like so many others before him didn't find much joy in hearing this. People were usually happy, when they were talked to, didn't they?