Heron Lake Plateau Tiptoe Thru' the Tulips with Me

Owen was startled from his pleasant, drowsy reverie with a snort, as the most disgusting odor he could ever have imagined came wafting along to tickle viciously at his innocent nostrils. His head snapped up and his eyes rolled wildly about before settling on a smallish black face planted firmly in the dirt not too far from his own. Sort of, that is: it was a face a little larger than his own, and once upon a time it had been black, but now it was smeared and defiled with a scummy, slimy, half-dried goop that spiked his once ebon pelt into the most hideous of mohawks e'er envisioned, crowned with a small bit of downy goose fluff. Owen froze, his face a mask of confused disgust and horror as his eyes trickled slowly down the form of Tywyll.

And it hadn't been just dirt that the kid had landed in, either. Eeeewwww! Owen's mouth worked in appalled silence for a moment before he could remind it of how to speak. Ffuuuaaagghh... gosh, what 'appened t' you?! He stared at the bigger pup another long moment before recalling with some embarrassment that he himself was probably part of the reason for the mess, and the smell. Owen coughed a little and scuffled at the dirt with one forepaw—a nice clean section of dirt thank you very much. Er, I mean, besides... right here and now. *koff, koff* ...Oops.