Redhawk Caldera What do you call a French dog that loves potatoes?

At the tail end of Towhee's invitation came a sudden apocalyptic wail, summoned from the depths of the hobbit hole or maybe somewhere deeper. 

The boy had recognized a cold spot where his mother was supposed to be and, being a creature of pure basic desire, demanded in the only way he could for the return of his catered lunch. 

Whoever should arrive to fill that void would be met with the knock-kneed stumbling potato, rolling on his pillowed belly, struggling to find the comfortable warmth that had been three minutes before.

That and a nice puddle of runny sand-brown poop sloshing beneath him.