Otatso Wetlands Frog hunting.

"I'm from the South—plenty full moons from here." He couldn't be sure if her interest in him was genuine or not, but despite his learned behavior not to trust, he found himself doing it anyway without really meaning to. Boone wasn't completely at ease with her, though nor did he seem tense. His golden eyes, the two different shades that they were, held her in friendly regard nonetheless.

He shook his head slightly at her interest in hallucinating, and he smiled mildly—a crooked thing, that pulled up on only one side of his broad muzzle. "I'm not keen on havin' a episode, m'self... But I heard it's different for everyone. Some cowboys can handle it, some cain't." Boone shrugged. He was a pretty conservative fellow; he had no intention of being without his wits for any period of time.

The pale dog watched her, the red-eyed stranger, as she deposited a toad at his feet. He sniffed it, unimpressed with the amphibious scent, but she had recommended it, and Boone wasn't about to be impolite. He nosed it as she backed away, a skeptical look across his practical face, and he looked up again when she introduced herself. "Boone," he rasped lightly, and dipped his head towards the toad. "Thanks, Scarlett." And he took his first bite.

It was unpleasantly squishy and devoid of the usual fur on the prey he was used to—but it didn't taste bad. He supposed in desperate times, he wouldn't mind eating a bumpy toad or two. Boone chewed with a strange look on his face—one between interest and bad taste—but he licked his chops when he was finished, and then angled his head towards Scarlett once again. "Not bad... Not good either, but it ain't bad," he chuckled.