[Fluttering draws his attention back to them, not that it's a difficult feat. He's got a thing for birds in the first place, but they also happen to be wings attached to someone who looks like a human being, and Will Graham does not hail from a world where human beings have wings. So perhaps he stares a bit more than he should, but he assumes all is forgiven. That she doesn't take it as exceedingly, piggishly rude. That even if she does find it rude, it does not put him in too horrific a predicament.]

Guess so. Never cared about breeds so much. Most of the ones I have back home are mutts. Mixes. [Ugly things, even. Not ugly cute or cute ugly, but just ugly. That weird underbite that doesn't grow on people, that oddly shaped face that proves more unnerving than something that can be gotten used to. Will lets go of the collar and stands up, tossing the slobber ball aside and wiping his hand on his pants as he looks at Gunther and nods his head to the direction of the door. Off he goes, makes a few attempts at grabbing up at cloth bag, which really shouldn't be a big deal for a the end result of some ultimate hunting dog, should it? Two failed attempts and one final push that results in half the bag nearly falling onto the grass, Will makes a face and goes to get it himself. After a nice pat on the head. You tried, buddy.] Easier to get purebreds when they've got problems. [Said problem dog following excitedly.] Oxygen deprivation in the womb. You're fine with whiskey, I take it?

[There's ease there. Not just ease confessing that his dog has some real issues and moving along, but with each topic involved—dogs, problems, booze. Another day in the life. And, if she reads into it, there's an ease with Kara as well.]