Otatso Wetlands Frog hunting.

"I ain't mean it like that," he smiled slightly. He often went misunderstood, having been raised within a quite remote area full of feral and uneducated southwest wolves, but he had also been taught by his mother, who was originally from the north. "Down south it's clear skies most oft, but we git the same amount of full moons as anywhere I s'pose." He shrugged, not exactly sure of his accuracy on the subject, but he hardly thought it mattered. "It's just the way I learned to measure my days—all I meant was that I seen plenty full moons before I got here. Wherever here is."

"And er... cowboy is just a term from where I was born. Those who did the hardest work—y'know, leadin' hunts, patrols, fightin' off trouble an' such—they was called cowboys." No one had asked him before what it had meant and he hadn't considered it foreign from northern vernacular; but Boone supposed he hadn't lived long enough or been enough places to know everything there was to know. "That's definitely an acquired taste," he chuckled, a rumbling sound in his throat that emerged as a scratchy sound because of the half-hidden wounds around his neck. "But I appreciate you learnin' me somethin' new today."

Boone licked his jaws once more, ridding himself of what juicy toad remained around his lips. He looked at her, just in the same way she surveyed him, but when their eyes met he glanced away quickly, as if he were shy or embarrassed. The wolfdog cleared his throat. "I am," he nodded, then turned mis-matched eyes back on her after a while. "You smell like a pack yourself. Y'all stay nearby?"