Lion Head Mesa he sees your dreams, feasts on your screams

her attempts did not in the slightest reassure the teacup man. he was no doctor, not educated in health care beyond fad diets and nutritional supplements for sleekness of whiskers and quality of fur - yet he wasn't pea-brained. his mouth tightened into a straight line as he watched poor maggie too weak to stand. this was the most severe case of awful health he'd ever witnessed in his life!

gucci stepped forward as to aid the woman, but halted, realising there was nothing he could think of to do. little head turned in every which direction, looking for helpful fellahin or brawny mazoi, but the immediate surroundings were devoid of their presence. he could hear them some stories below, of course, within barking distance, but-- and now he frowned, wide-eyed - what if the nebet wished to keep this illness... private? 

now, he couldn't conceive why she would, but if he'd learned one thing about akashingo, it was that its wolves and coyotes cared a lot for outward appearances and pristine manners.

the chihuahua stepped closer, and softly nuzzled the side of the wolf's snout, as to brush the whiskers (but avoid the vomit-bits).

"m-miss, sh-should aah call someone?" he hesitated, gathered confidence. "n don't tell me ya don't need help." the sentence began assertive, but ended with a half-whine.