Ramvling

Quill had all but given up on finding his friends again. Their territory was large and confusing and his entire life had spiraled into nothing but the kid’s wants. He fed the kid, cleaned the kid, bent over backwards for the stupid kid, and for what? So the kid could whine some more? The brown terrier had mostly taken to calling the pup Jitters, because that’s all Quill seemed to have these days. He would go for days without sleeping.  Whoever the kid’s real mom was could find them and accuse him of taking the pup. Or the kid could die and it would be his fault. Or worse, the nonsense-stork could come back with more pups.