"Greyson," the red-ribbon Dalma called out weakly, tiredly. "Greyson. Greyson. Greyson..."
The Dalma ahead tuned out the calls. His paws ached, his fur was dirty, his tongue was parched, his stomach was starving. Even his ribbon, a mere piece of superfluous fabric, was in bad shape. Everything in his body hurt, from nose to the tips of his two tails that dragged along the road.
"Greyson," the whine came again.
And unable to tune out that high-pitched, pitiful voice forever, Greyson abruptly stopped so he could turn around. "What, Bug?" he snarled with a glare. "What is it?!"