Stone Circle we only want it with the lights out

iamsonauseous x__x

Guilt was a hard pill to swallow, and like the many times he’d been caught stealing food off the counter or the table, French Fry found his appetite to be quite suddenly lacking. He watched, clearly puzzling out some deep inner conflict, as the Newfoundland divided the meager kill into thirds — but when the meat was laid before him, hunger flared anew. French Fry vacuumed his portion of the ground squirrel as was his wont; it never even brushed his tastebuds before racing down his ever-hungry gullet. “Stark,” French Fry repeated dutifully, committing the name to memory. Despite the single marble rolling around in his skull, he could usually be relied on to remember names.

Dropping bonelessly to his stomach as he licked his paws and rubbed his muzzle like a cat, “Usually we’re Home,” French Fry answered, warming to the wolf with a spirited wag of his golden and cream tail. “Sometimes we ride in the car and go to the park, and this time we went camping, but they went to get snacks so we have to wait for them.” He glanced up at his big brother and Stark with a goofy dog grin, his muzzle parted in a rolling pant, black-lined lips tipped upwards at the corners as his eyes half-closed.