Post by Azoto on Jun 26, 2010 1:16:42 GMT -5
Players:
Jethro - (M) Dog (Bloodhound)
Sarge - (M) Dog (Greenland Dog)
SETTING:
Paddock Pond-
It is located a ways out in the pasture, this pond. It's a small little body of water, but it works well enough to serve it's purpose - to provide a place for nearby animals to quench their thirst without the farmer having to worry about providing the water himself. The grass grows almost right up to the edge of the pond, with only the slightest hint of a soft, dirt bank before the water starts. The water isn't very deep - a medium-sized dog could stand in the middle of it and it would only reach his chest - and is just the right temperature for drinking, usually being neither too cold or too warm. A lone tree stands a few steps removed from the pond, a quiet observer over all that occurs here. Every so often, as a breeze rustles through its branches, a leaf or two will drop to the water and rest serenely on the surface. At the edge of the pasture, the wooden fence is broken, allowing for free roam in and out of the farmlands.
---
Close on to evening, with the sun becoming closed in by clouds, and wind occasionally dancing through the overgrown grass, life makes its way toward one of many paddocks in this farmland area of country; this being Sarge. Large bodied, thick fur, and scars all over. And then there's the broken, wearing out remains of the leather harness. In later months it's begun to cut into him in certain areas; causing a faint limp in the forelegs; but at the same time, the leather has also begun to wear. He's already chewed bites and tears into the leather breastcross; but those about his back and neck remain. And this evening it is water he comes for; a stiff legged half-trot bringing him towards the pond, after jumping the broken fence; here he dips his pointed snout, and laps at the water.
Like his northern bred distant cousin, Jethro is also here for the water. His journey hadn't been nearly as physically straining as the Greenland dog's, but certainly nearly as worrisome. Born to track down game and criminals, the poor Bloodhound's exquisite sense of smell had gotten the better of him, and he'd done wandered off too far. A rain a few days back wiped his trail back nearly clean, which left the black and tan dog rather helpless for the moment. With the heat of summer setting in and his back being victim to the heat of the sun, he'd found the pond only but a short while ago, and had hopped right into it. Laying at the shallow ends, the big lug is half asleep, his eyes closed and his nose flaring with little snore-snorts every so often. The pond is large enough to where he wouldn't be seen at first, but the lapping of water wakes him up. Opening his eyes quickly, the hackles on his back raise instinctually at seeing someone else there, but he doesn't mean to be aggressive. "'Lo there.." he mutters quietly, standing from the shallow water and giving his body a hard shake, much skin flopping around, along with a great deal of water flinging from his body.
Ears lay back at first, then cock forward, as the rougher of the two dogs looks up lightly; auburn eyes glimmer a little, and then Sarge gruffs, "'Lo." Lazily, before he returns to drinking, his ears flattening slightly, though not in agressiveness, just... In idle manner. What should he care if there's fur floating in the water, water is water. He grunts to himself, before he lifts his head to look the Bloodhound over. Eh. The chain catches his eye, some, and he snorts. "Humans, huh?" He asks, casually, before he looks toward the great tree nearby, and starts that way with that rough limp; upon reaching it, he begins trying to rub his back against the rough bark, to try and releive himself some of those leather straps.
The gruffness of the more thickly furred dog's voice doesn't disturb Jethro in the least, as he had a rather rough and western accented slur as well. At the question of humans from Sarge, the bloodhound gives a blink at first, then sticks his neck out and gives the briefest wag of his tail. "Yess'um, didn't figur' I needed to bother gettin' it off. Don't bother me none," He says, and flares his nostrils as he tries to get a better scent of the other dog. He can't really smell it, but he can see the limp that the dog walks with and he can also plainly see the harness, and the discomfort it was causing. "You too?" He asks, turning with Sarge but not following him just yet.
"Four grand years, pulling sled, hauling weight, 'good dog', 'bad dog'.." Grunts Sarge, as he rubs against the bark, causing the tree to groan and crackle as the rings strain in the leather, and the leather itself wears slightly away; though this also causes it to reopen the wounds where fur has dulled away and skin is broken. "Then they go and get themselves et up by wolves, and nearly me too." He snorts, shaking his head, "I'm done with'em. Dee-oh-en-ee, done." He snorts again, and then gives up on the harness, before trotting around the tree, and cocking his leg. A breif make of water, and he then settles down, laying in the grass, watching the hound. "Don't bother you none now, son, but eventually that thing'll begin to wear into your neck like this here things' wearin' into my sides. Damned that we don't have thumbs."
Hearing the word 'sled' and obviously noting the heavy coating of the dog, Jethro's muzzle curls into a grin and he lets out a little chortle of laughter. "So you's one-a them yankee dogs?" He asks, having heard the term 'yankee' many times from his own master, knowing it was associated with people that sounded like.. well, like Sarge here. "Well, sorry to hear such a thing happened to ya. Ain't right what them wolves do to our people. What they need is some good ol' obedience trainin', if ya ask me." He says, his voice deep and rather thoughtful. Finally, the half soaked bloodhound takes a few steps over to Sarge, and looks the harness over. "Don't look too tough. Whatcha need is a good set of teeth, saw that thing right off." He says, and pauses. "Want some help, friend?"
A grunt; though Sarge is hesitent. To be honest, that harness is about the last thing he's got to remind him of anything; be it the life he was raised to know against his wishes, or the times he didn't mind, either; like when work was done, and the harness was off, and he was allowed to run around will-nilly, like a stupid pup. But he reminds himself that those days have been gone a long time, too, as he half turns one scarred foreleg, and begins to chaw slightly at a hardened dewclaw. "I 'reckon' maybe I am one of 'them yankee dogs', and I reckon you are one of 'them Coon Hunters'. But we're both dogs all the same." He snorts a little, then says, "I also reckon you could work a bit of tooth into this thing. At least get it out from under my leg some."
Giving the greenland dog an amused look, again Jethro gives a chuckle, and shrugs his shoulders, stretching his forelegs out a bit, as well as his backlegs and tail. "Guess so. Hunted some'a them damned varmints enough." He muses, and then looks the strange leather contraption over again. "Nothin's simple with them yankee types. Just lookit this thing. Ain't no need fer' alla that." The simple dog mutters to himself, trying to figure a way to get his teeth in there and start chewing. "Show me the spot and I'll try and rip it off for yeh."
"Hell if I know why they need all these straps. And then they get ropes and chains involved, and damned if all it's for is pulling a sledge, or yanking a stump from the ground, or drivin' a sled.. We're just cheap labor to them," Sarge snorts, and rolls to his side, lifting the foreleg that's giving him the most trouble to expose the straps coming lose about his chest and that are wrapped about that leg. "Easier to feed than horses, and if they can't do that no more they turn us loose and make us fend for ourselves, or they shoot us." He hrrmphs to himself, and then adds, "And if we bite'em c'os they do us wrong, they break our jaws with a stick, or break our backs with a whip. Not like a horse, no."
Listening to the obviously very disgruntled dog, Jethro nods his head at appropriate times, and gives his head a shake. "Like I said, it ain't right. Shame your humans had ta' treat y'all like that. Ones I know were nice enough. Simple in the head sometimes, but they meant well." Looking to the harness again, he lets out a sigh, and shakes his head. "Takes all kinds, though.. alright, keep yerself still and I'll see if I can't.." Taking one of the straps between his teeth, he continues to talk, regardless. "..break this.. consarnt.. dag nabbed.." With his teeth squeaking against the leather, he can't say that he enjoys the taste, but knows it's for a good cause.
"Hrrnf.." Grunts the heavier-coated dog, as he's yanked slightly with the tugging and gashing of teeth against the cowhide wrapped around him. Sarge withstands patiently, though the leather doesn't seem willing in of itself to give easily; it's worn enough in places though that it does start to rip a bit more than it had. "Tastes worse than fish that's been left out in the sun for too long, don't it. Shoot, I'd have ate the damn thing off by now if I could reach it proper, and chew it right, but this ain't a one dog job." He grunts, though, and offers, "Them wolves will eat that stuff though, eat it right off a dog, toy with the dog a little, then eat the dog, too, if they get hungry enough.."
Positioning the leather strap so that it's far back in his mouth and so that his sharp back molars can gnaw away at it, Jethro continues to listen to Sarge's words, and gives his head a shake, which is both in shame of their ancestral predators, but also to help work at the harness. "Just a buncha.. damned.. varmints, all they is.." he growls into the material, hearing it tear and snap in his mouth, but it's tough. Even if it's worn down, it'll take a few more minutes of gnawing and of his own slobber getting mixed in with and soaked into the material to /really/ snap it.
Another shake and jerk; though the heavyset dog just grunts. Sarge then remarks, "I wouldn't call them varmints. They have their purpose, I guess. Savages, that's what I'd call them. We are to wolves as the white skinned humans are to the red skins or dark skins. 'Civilized', if you wanna call it that. And the wolves got one thing we don't, son; they got numbers on their sides. A good pack of pullin' dogs like me is all it takes to haul two humans and their gear five hundred mile, a good pack of wolves is all it takes to kill and eat a dog in less than twenty minutes." He snorts darkly, then wriggles around, trying to get a forepaw shifted and moved about to put pressure against the straps as well.
Back home, Jethro's owner had his own troubles with the red skinned humans. So, Sarge's analogy is really pretty accurate. "I guess so.. least they keep a lotta the other things in check." Rabbits, for one. Oh, he hated those things. So many times, he'd been sent off to go get rabbits. Or 'coons. Or possums.. anything like that, he didn't like. He just liked chasing them. Wriggling the leather around in his mouth still until he can feel one tooth touch the other, he gives the harness a good pull, and finally the strap breaks into two pieces, both wet and dribbly at the ends from his own slobber. "Weeeeell! That oughta feel a whole heap better 'fore long. Think you can rassle yerself out the rest'a the way?"
With a jerk and a thump, Sarge grunts sharply as the strap breaks, and then without even giving the bloodhound a chance to back up he's rolling over and leaping to his feet, growling and shaking his fur, sending the straps flying a little about him. "That's a damn sure thing I can," the gruff dog remarks, before ducking down, and planting a paw about the loops around his neck, jerking adn wriggling, too the entire mess comes flapping free in a heap. He growls at it, snorts, then says, "And good riddance," before he looks to the bloodhound. "Want me to see if I can get that thing kff your neck? I figure iffen I hold it a bit, you can probably wriggle loose. Or I could try chawin' it some."
Taking a step back, Jethro watches idly as Sarge flings the harness off of him in a display of some aggression and definitely a sense of urgency and whatnot. Behind him, his tail wags just slightly, happy to see the other dog so relieved, and knowing that he wouldn't be in so much discomfort now also made him feel good. The lop-eared dog blinks again as Sarge mentions his own collar, but gives his head a shake and he stands back up after taking a seat in the wet, muddy ground. After while, he'd probably take a dip in the pond again to get himself a bit more clean. "Naw, it ain't a bother. Not tight 'er nothin'." He says, giving his head a shake, the chan collar moving freely around his neck. For such a wide neck, it was necessary to get a very large chain; this one was a bit too large and, theoretically, Jethro could remove it whenever he wanted.
"A'ight then," Sarge says, watching the chain spin a bit, before he partakes of one of a dog's greatest joys: sitting down, cocking slightly askew, raising one forepaw, and scratching at his chest with a hind foot. It's obvious he's glad to get the harness off; though he's not one to voice his delight outright. "Thanks for the help, son," he remarks, before he considers. "Y'know, we been standing here shooting the breeze for so long, and all, and ain't even passed names. Reckon that's something we ought to do, I suppose. They called me Old Sarge, but Sarge'll do for the most part."
"No problem. Hate ta' see ya limpin on outta here into wolf country." He says, giving a light sigh. "I can smell 'em already.. they're not too far off. S'why I'm stayin' up here. Figur' the smell of humans puts 'em off a bit." He says, and looks to the stockier dog. "I reckon you should do the same, 'least till that legg'a yers gets a little bit back ta normal. Come to think of it, they hadn't even given each other their names yet. Where were his manners, anyhow? Aw, well. Probably got caught up in trying to help the poor dog. "Names Jethro, friend. Nice to meet'ya."
"Well, Jethro, I thank ya again for the help," Sarge says, as he stands, then grfabs hold of that mess of leather and hoops, and trots a ways away from the tree; dropping it again, he begins digging, talking as he does so: "I ain't too afraid of them wolves, but your right; better to stick around here while I smell like fresh blood c'os of this blasted thing than it is to go trompin' along out there. Smell of blood'ell bring'em faster than a human can whistle dixie. After that winter they just saw, shoot, I'm surprised the smell of man around here even does keep'em away." He snorts a little, then looks back towards the nearer house. "... Speakin' of man, though, smell of'im's kinda faint up by the house. Well, faint enough. And with that broke't fence there, I imagine either the feller been gone on a trip for a while or he done up and moved."
"Smell is kinda faint, I reckon he ain't been around in a long while. But any scent of man is sure to keep most critters away, which might be why we can still smell it; what lil' bit we can, anyhow." Oh, the great detective bloodhound. "Might take a hike on up to the barn when it gets a little cooler out. 'Fore dark, a course. Yer' welcome to come along if you wanna. Figur' it'll be safer with two of us 'steada one." The black and tan hound lifts his extremely sensitive nose to the air, to get a whiff of the surroundings. Of course, /his/ surroundings according to his sense of smell is comparitively larger to that of the working dog. "Don't smell like nothin' bad 'round these parts, should be un-eventful either way. In any case, if yer' up for it."
"Nah. You go on. I'll be fine out here," Sarge remarks, as he keeps digging; not satisfied with some little scrape in the ground by any means at all it appears. Likely going to keep digging till he's got something at least a foot deep; even though he does stop momentarily to give a huff, and turn to lift the lamed forepaw and lick at his chest where the straps had been with a curse and a mutter both under his breath. "If I can live with holin' up in five foot of snow in the middle of the blasted winter, I can spend a night outside in the middle of summer. And like you said, my southern friend, the smell is enough to keep the wild'uns away for a while. "
Watching the stockier dog dig the hole for the harness, Jethro has a mind to help him out, but in all honesty it looks like it'd work up a lot of energy, and he's just not in the mood for it. He'd rather be out in the sun, laying low and getting some rest. But, the pond is nice too. So, he mosies on over to his shallow area, and lays himself down in it again, curling his head down to rest on a foreleg. "Suit yerself." The southern dog says kindly, and yawns rather loudly, smacking his lips afterward. "Y'need anythin', just wake me up." He says quietly, sounding quite tired, before his eyes close and he drifts back on to sleep just like before.
"I'll do that," A rare chortle escapes from the gruff four-year-old, as he keeps on digging a grave for that blasted piece of human handiwork. "But I'll like more as not get rid of this devil's work here, then lay down under the tree for a while and rest up; better on my leg like that. Later I'll probably take advantage of the dark to hunt some rats for dinner. Maybe. Or I might decide to just be right lazy and stay here where I am." He snorts again; and continues digging; letting the bloodhound settle into a nice nap if he wants.
Jethro - (M) Dog (Bloodhound)
Sarge - (M) Dog (Greenland Dog)
SETTING:
Paddock Pond-
It is located a ways out in the pasture, this pond. It's a small little body of water, but it works well enough to serve it's purpose - to provide a place for nearby animals to quench their thirst without the farmer having to worry about providing the water himself. The grass grows almost right up to the edge of the pond, with only the slightest hint of a soft, dirt bank before the water starts. The water isn't very deep - a medium-sized dog could stand in the middle of it and it would only reach his chest - and is just the right temperature for drinking, usually being neither too cold or too warm. A lone tree stands a few steps removed from the pond, a quiet observer over all that occurs here. Every so often, as a breeze rustles through its branches, a leaf or two will drop to the water and rest serenely on the surface. At the edge of the pasture, the wooden fence is broken, allowing for free roam in and out of the farmlands.
---
Close on to evening, with the sun becoming closed in by clouds, and wind occasionally dancing through the overgrown grass, life makes its way toward one of many paddocks in this farmland area of country; this being Sarge. Large bodied, thick fur, and scars all over. And then there's the broken, wearing out remains of the leather harness. In later months it's begun to cut into him in certain areas; causing a faint limp in the forelegs; but at the same time, the leather has also begun to wear. He's already chewed bites and tears into the leather breastcross; but those about his back and neck remain. And this evening it is water he comes for; a stiff legged half-trot bringing him towards the pond, after jumping the broken fence; here he dips his pointed snout, and laps at the water.
Like his northern bred distant cousin, Jethro is also here for the water. His journey hadn't been nearly as physically straining as the Greenland dog's, but certainly nearly as worrisome. Born to track down game and criminals, the poor Bloodhound's exquisite sense of smell had gotten the better of him, and he'd done wandered off too far. A rain a few days back wiped his trail back nearly clean, which left the black and tan dog rather helpless for the moment. With the heat of summer setting in and his back being victim to the heat of the sun, he'd found the pond only but a short while ago, and had hopped right into it. Laying at the shallow ends, the big lug is half asleep, his eyes closed and his nose flaring with little snore-snorts every so often. The pond is large enough to where he wouldn't be seen at first, but the lapping of water wakes him up. Opening his eyes quickly, the hackles on his back raise instinctually at seeing someone else there, but he doesn't mean to be aggressive. "'Lo there.." he mutters quietly, standing from the shallow water and giving his body a hard shake, much skin flopping around, along with a great deal of water flinging from his body.
Ears lay back at first, then cock forward, as the rougher of the two dogs looks up lightly; auburn eyes glimmer a little, and then Sarge gruffs, "'Lo." Lazily, before he returns to drinking, his ears flattening slightly, though not in agressiveness, just... In idle manner. What should he care if there's fur floating in the water, water is water. He grunts to himself, before he lifts his head to look the Bloodhound over. Eh. The chain catches his eye, some, and he snorts. "Humans, huh?" He asks, casually, before he looks toward the great tree nearby, and starts that way with that rough limp; upon reaching it, he begins trying to rub his back against the rough bark, to try and releive himself some of those leather straps.
The gruffness of the more thickly furred dog's voice doesn't disturb Jethro in the least, as he had a rather rough and western accented slur as well. At the question of humans from Sarge, the bloodhound gives a blink at first, then sticks his neck out and gives the briefest wag of his tail. "Yess'um, didn't figur' I needed to bother gettin' it off. Don't bother me none," He says, and flares his nostrils as he tries to get a better scent of the other dog. He can't really smell it, but he can see the limp that the dog walks with and he can also plainly see the harness, and the discomfort it was causing. "You too?" He asks, turning with Sarge but not following him just yet.
"Four grand years, pulling sled, hauling weight, 'good dog', 'bad dog'.." Grunts Sarge, as he rubs against the bark, causing the tree to groan and crackle as the rings strain in the leather, and the leather itself wears slightly away; though this also causes it to reopen the wounds where fur has dulled away and skin is broken. "Then they go and get themselves et up by wolves, and nearly me too." He snorts, shaking his head, "I'm done with'em. Dee-oh-en-ee, done." He snorts again, and then gives up on the harness, before trotting around the tree, and cocking his leg. A breif make of water, and he then settles down, laying in the grass, watching the hound. "Don't bother you none now, son, but eventually that thing'll begin to wear into your neck like this here things' wearin' into my sides. Damned that we don't have thumbs."
Hearing the word 'sled' and obviously noting the heavy coating of the dog, Jethro's muzzle curls into a grin and he lets out a little chortle of laughter. "So you's one-a them yankee dogs?" He asks, having heard the term 'yankee' many times from his own master, knowing it was associated with people that sounded like.. well, like Sarge here. "Well, sorry to hear such a thing happened to ya. Ain't right what them wolves do to our people. What they need is some good ol' obedience trainin', if ya ask me." He says, his voice deep and rather thoughtful. Finally, the half soaked bloodhound takes a few steps over to Sarge, and looks the harness over. "Don't look too tough. Whatcha need is a good set of teeth, saw that thing right off." He says, and pauses. "Want some help, friend?"
A grunt; though Sarge is hesitent. To be honest, that harness is about the last thing he's got to remind him of anything; be it the life he was raised to know against his wishes, or the times he didn't mind, either; like when work was done, and the harness was off, and he was allowed to run around will-nilly, like a stupid pup. But he reminds himself that those days have been gone a long time, too, as he half turns one scarred foreleg, and begins to chaw slightly at a hardened dewclaw. "I 'reckon' maybe I am one of 'them yankee dogs', and I reckon you are one of 'them Coon Hunters'. But we're both dogs all the same." He snorts a little, then says, "I also reckon you could work a bit of tooth into this thing. At least get it out from under my leg some."
Giving the greenland dog an amused look, again Jethro gives a chuckle, and shrugs his shoulders, stretching his forelegs out a bit, as well as his backlegs and tail. "Guess so. Hunted some'a them damned varmints enough." He muses, and then looks the strange leather contraption over again. "Nothin's simple with them yankee types. Just lookit this thing. Ain't no need fer' alla that." The simple dog mutters to himself, trying to figure a way to get his teeth in there and start chewing. "Show me the spot and I'll try and rip it off for yeh."
"Hell if I know why they need all these straps. And then they get ropes and chains involved, and damned if all it's for is pulling a sledge, or yanking a stump from the ground, or drivin' a sled.. We're just cheap labor to them," Sarge snorts, and rolls to his side, lifting the foreleg that's giving him the most trouble to expose the straps coming lose about his chest and that are wrapped about that leg. "Easier to feed than horses, and if they can't do that no more they turn us loose and make us fend for ourselves, or they shoot us." He hrrmphs to himself, and then adds, "And if we bite'em c'os they do us wrong, they break our jaws with a stick, or break our backs with a whip. Not like a horse, no."
Listening to the obviously very disgruntled dog, Jethro nods his head at appropriate times, and gives his head a shake. "Like I said, it ain't right. Shame your humans had ta' treat y'all like that. Ones I know were nice enough. Simple in the head sometimes, but they meant well." Looking to the harness again, he lets out a sigh, and shakes his head. "Takes all kinds, though.. alright, keep yerself still and I'll see if I can't.." Taking one of the straps between his teeth, he continues to talk, regardless. "..break this.. consarnt.. dag nabbed.." With his teeth squeaking against the leather, he can't say that he enjoys the taste, but knows it's for a good cause.
"Hrrnf.." Grunts the heavier-coated dog, as he's yanked slightly with the tugging and gashing of teeth against the cowhide wrapped around him. Sarge withstands patiently, though the leather doesn't seem willing in of itself to give easily; it's worn enough in places though that it does start to rip a bit more than it had. "Tastes worse than fish that's been left out in the sun for too long, don't it. Shoot, I'd have ate the damn thing off by now if I could reach it proper, and chew it right, but this ain't a one dog job." He grunts, though, and offers, "Them wolves will eat that stuff though, eat it right off a dog, toy with the dog a little, then eat the dog, too, if they get hungry enough.."
Positioning the leather strap so that it's far back in his mouth and so that his sharp back molars can gnaw away at it, Jethro continues to listen to Sarge's words, and gives his head a shake, which is both in shame of their ancestral predators, but also to help work at the harness. "Just a buncha.. damned.. varmints, all they is.." he growls into the material, hearing it tear and snap in his mouth, but it's tough. Even if it's worn down, it'll take a few more minutes of gnawing and of his own slobber getting mixed in with and soaked into the material to /really/ snap it.
Another shake and jerk; though the heavyset dog just grunts. Sarge then remarks, "I wouldn't call them varmints. They have their purpose, I guess. Savages, that's what I'd call them. We are to wolves as the white skinned humans are to the red skins or dark skins. 'Civilized', if you wanna call it that. And the wolves got one thing we don't, son; they got numbers on their sides. A good pack of pullin' dogs like me is all it takes to haul two humans and their gear five hundred mile, a good pack of wolves is all it takes to kill and eat a dog in less than twenty minutes." He snorts darkly, then wriggles around, trying to get a forepaw shifted and moved about to put pressure against the straps as well.
Back home, Jethro's owner had his own troubles with the red skinned humans. So, Sarge's analogy is really pretty accurate. "I guess so.. least they keep a lotta the other things in check." Rabbits, for one. Oh, he hated those things. So many times, he'd been sent off to go get rabbits. Or 'coons. Or possums.. anything like that, he didn't like. He just liked chasing them. Wriggling the leather around in his mouth still until he can feel one tooth touch the other, he gives the harness a good pull, and finally the strap breaks into two pieces, both wet and dribbly at the ends from his own slobber. "Weeeeell! That oughta feel a whole heap better 'fore long. Think you can rassle yerself out the rest'a the way?"
With a jerk and a thump, Sarge grunts sharply as the strap breaks, and then without even giving the bloodhound a chance to back up he's rolling over and leaping to his feet, growling and shaking his fur, sending the straps flying a little about him. "That's a damn sure thing I can," the gruff dog remarks, before ducking down, and planting a paw about the loops around his neck, jerking adn wriggling, too the entire mess comes flapping free in a heap. He growls at it, snorts, then says, "And good riddance," before he looks to the bloodhound. "Want me to see if I can get that thing kff your neck? I figure iffen I hold it a bit, you can probably wriggle loose. Or I could try chawin' it some."
Taking a step back, Jethro watches idly as Sarge flings the harness off of him in a display of some aggression and definitely a sense of urgency and whatnot. Behind him, his tail wags just slightly, happy to see the other dog so relieved, and knowing that he wouldn't be in so much discomfort now also made him feel good. The lop-eared dog blinks again as Sarge mentions his own collar, but gives his head a shake and he stands back up after taking a seat in the wet, muddy ground. After while, he'd probably take a dip in the pond again to get himself a bit more clean. "Naw, it ain't a bother. Not tight 'er nothin'." He says, giving his head a shake, the chan collar moving freely around his neck. For such a wide neck, it was necessary to get a very large chain; this one was a bit too large and, theoretically, Jethro could remove it whenever he wanted.
"A'ight then," Sarge says, watching the chain spin a bit, before he partakes of one of a dog's greatest joys: sitting down, cocking slightly askew, raising one forepaw, and scratching at his chest with a hind foot. It's obvious he's glad to get the harness off; though he's not one to voice his delight outright. "Thanks for the help, son," he remarks, before he considers. "Y'know, we been standing here shooting the breeze for so long, and all, and ain't even passed names. Reckon that's something we ought to do, I suppose. They called me Old Sarge, but Sarge'll do for the most part."
"No problem. Hate ta' see ya limpin on outta here into wolf country." He says, giving a light sigh. "I can smell 'em already.. they're not too far off. S'why I'm stayin' up here. Figur' the smell of humans puts 'em off a bit." He says, and looks to the stockier dog. "I reckon you should do the same, 'least till that legg'a yers gets a little bit back ta normal. Come to think of it, they hadn't even given each other their names yet. Where were his manners, anyhow? Aw, well. Probably got caught up in trying to help the poor dog. "Names Jethro, friend. Nice to meet'ya."
"Well, Jethro, I thank ya again for the help," Sarge says, as he stands, then grfabs hold of that mess of leather and hoops, and trots a ways away from the tree; dropping it again, he begins digging, talking as he does so: "I ain't too afraid of them wolves, but your right; better to stick around here while I smell like fresh blood c'os of this blasted thing than it is to go trompin' along out there. Smell of blood'ell bring'em faster than a human can whistle dixie. After that winter they just saw, shoot, I'm surprised the smell of man around here even does keep'em away." He snorts a little, then looks back towards the nearer house. "... Speakin' of man, though, smell of'im's kinda faint up by the house. Well, faint enough. And with that broke't fence there, I imagine either the feller been gone on a trip for a while or he done up and moved."
"Smell is kinda faint, I reckon he ain't been around in a long while. But any scent of man is sure to keep most critters away, which might be why we can still smell it; what lil' bit we can, anyhow." Oh, the great detective bloodhound. "Might take a hike on up to the barn when it gets a little cooler out. 'Fore dark, a course. Yer' welcome to come along if you wanna. Figur' it'll be safer with two of us 'steada one." The black and tan hound lifts his extremely sensitive nose to the air, to get a whiff of the surroundings. Of course, /his/ surroundings according to his sense of smell is comparitively larger to that of the working dog. "Don't smell like nothin' bad 'round these parts, should be un-eventful either way. In any case, if yer' up for it."
"Nah. You go on. I'll be fine out here," Sarge remarks, as he keeps digging; not satisfied with some little scrape in the ground by any means at all it appears. Likely going to keep digging till he's got something at least a foot deep; even though he does stop momentarily to give a huff, and turn to lift the lamed forepaw and lick at his chest where the straps had been with a curse and a mutter both under his breath. "If I can live with holin' up in five foot of snow in the middle of the blasted winter, I can spend a night outside in the middle of summer. And like you said, my southern friend, the smell is enough to keep the wild'uns away for a while. "
Watching the stockier dog dig the hole for the harness, Jethro has a mind to help him out, but in all honesty it looks like it'd work up a lot of energy, and he's just not in the mood for it. He'd rather be out in the sun, laying low and getting some rest. But, the pond is nice too. So, he mosies on over to his shallow area, and lays himself down in it again, curling his head down to rest on a foreleg. "Suit yerself." The southern dog says kindly, and yawns rather loudly, smacking his lips afterward. "Y'need anythin', just wake me up." He says quietly, sounding quite tired, before his eyes close and he drifts back on to sleep just like before.
"I'll do that," A rare chortle escapes from the gruff four-year-old, as he keeps on digging a grave for that blasted piece of human handiwork. "But I'll like more as not get rid of this devil's work here, then lay down under the tree for a while and rest up; better on my leg like that. Later I'll probably take advantage of the dark to hunt some rats for dinner. Maybe. Or I might decide to just be right lazy and stay here where I am." He snorts again; and continues digging; letting the bloodhound settle into a nice nap if he wants.