Lion Head Mesa con[m]igo

he saw that he had disturbed her in some work, and his discomfort was made worse by her bow and her words. he wished to excuse himself, maybe claim he just remembered some fictional task he had to tend to -- but no. he would ask for help, else they'd surely remove him from the chambers for his crimes against olfactory senses.

and the poor girl, how she tried to be subtle, but gucci was already on the hunt for any traces of taken offence. he only grew more uncomfortable, but still, he thought of the metaphor of ripping off a bandaid.

"well, uhm, y'see... ah don't think the bathin' would help in full." his paw raised a bit above ground, and were he human it would likely go farther up to nervously tug at the beautiful locks he would surely sport in that form. "m'sweater's mostly t' blame for awfulness o' mah state. i-it's of good make, not that it's not, but ah was s'pposed t' change it 'fter two days most, not..." his eyes wandered off to the side. "...two months now?" he whispered in disbelief. 

he snapped his attention back to the fellahin. "point is, uhm, uuh. ah guess mah request is; could'ja, ah, help me pull this off?"