Houluh Breeding DONE

The peanut butter on toast crunches between his teeth with the satisfaction of a perfectly toasted piece of bread. Perhaps adding some berry preserves on it after his next trip into the district for groceries?
As he eats his breakfast for the morning, Kristofor props his morning newspaper against the vase of silk flowers. Business for the grooming business is slow; occasionally someone comes in and inquires about prices, but doesn't always come back. A warm weight rests on his feet as Dawson the houlou snoozes his own breakfast off. He gets more energetic going outside, and really needed a walk early before the heat gets too much to bear.
A spread ad of a dog springing off the page catches his eye.
"Seeking Houlou breeding partner" It displays a handsome running image of a houlou but the color is a bit off being black and white. They always spell Houlou strangely too; why is it with an 'h' at the end? Sounds like hucking a hairball. To meet at the park, and
'Curiosity. Out?' he inquires to his canine friend. A wide mouthed yawn... "Shall we go for a walk to meet a friend?"
'Out? WALK?! YESYESYES!' BARK! Dawson dashes for the door. Leaving fox friend to stuff his not-food in his mouth as he grabs a leash and a few other things.
Once he reached the park, who was he supposed to look for? The southeastern end... but he did see another houlou in the distance.
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By nature, foxes don't deal well with dogs. Wild or otherwise. The fact of he owns two as 'pets' like a person is a rarity in itself. Even with Dawson veering off course at any given moment to smell a new smell that hadn't been there previously, at least he wasn't in a chasey mood. Yet.
What he's not expecting is to stop. Dawson's posture has changed. He's standing upright, tossing his head upwards like catching a chasey scent.
'Stop? Curiosity. Concern.' Kris knows his nose isn't as keen as the dogs in certain situations. Might be the access to scented shampoos.
'New smell. Dog. Where? Curiosity. Interest?' He looks in the direction of the way the other canine is pointed. Another animal, about the same size as Dawson is bounding towards them both. Making a cuss of a barking racket. Almost like a baying of beagles. He doesn't like beagles.
Kristofor's limbs tense up, in case he needs to flee.
There's an owner chasing along behind the dog, calling out to be friendly.
'New dog?' Bark! Dawson barks back. 'DOG DOG DOG DOG!'
"Friendly...?" Don't run. It'll chase you.
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"Dawson." as the other hound is being verbally collected, Kristofor does the same, catching the hound's attention enough to see his signal to sit.
DOG! Must bark at dog! he whines, haunches reluctantly meeting the ground. Then being told, again without words, to stay. He exhales through his nose, shoulders dropping. Fox mad.
Not mad. Fox...scared. Ears canted back, he's got his eye on the widely arcing animal as it returns to the owner. Tall as he is, blue? and...smells of cat. Kristofor hasn't met very many catfolk. The few he has are mean. But he's never met such a tall cat with... antlers?
"Less fright, I was spooked. Barking dogs..." His feet look very appealing to stare at, a visibly fluffed tail swishing the ground apologetically. "I don't like...barking dogs."
Whine. Fox scared? Bark is hello. BIG HELLO. Dawson's tail sweeps the ground, meeting his ankle several times.
"Yes, I am answering the ad." And this time, he knows that its a meeting for a breeding, not for just an social visit. "This is Dawson."
As for Kristofor himself, he has a light blue vest on, made of the lightest fabric that he can find that can withstand panilla claws digging into it, and a toga bottom skirt, that's a faded sort of blue gray.
6

"I'm happy for the company too." When Dawson's barks eased off, the fox's ears cant back upwards. He maintains a cautioned but friendly air and posture around the stranger. Until they mentioned Harmony. THAT WAS FOREVER AGO, it felt like.
"Harmony! Yes, I remember walking her. And now that I think about it, I recall you too. It is good to make better than passing acquaintances. My name is Kristofor." A polite nod to add on. His words feel jointed and difficult, but it wasn't a given if the antlered cat...Xentus? has any knowledge of the language of the forest. Since he hasn't had that much interaction besides fleeting conversations with customers or his landlord, that reached his extent of at least six months of the year. "Your ad is for breeding? Dawson has previously had brown pups, but I've since worked with him to ...win a contest." Reaching into a small pocket on the inner lining of his vest, Kristofor shows a certificate of Maestre de Marq. "I am not informed though, of what this does."
Dawson keeps craning his head up to look at fox friend then back at the 'sided' black and spotty and brown dog before him. Play now? Go say hi now? Whine....
8

To his ear, and he's not really paid attention to it before, the catfolk has an unusual way of self-address. By their own name or 'this one'. Although curious, it's refreshing to hear a new way of how to speak. And it sounds better Common than the cub's garble he speaks on bad days.
"Ah, this one is...also pleased to join you and ...uh... La-coo on this... vent-your." Ugh, that sounded better in his head. "Common is not my first language. I am learning. You speak well."
It's unfortunate that Xentus doesn't know about the maestre, he should've asked the human woman with the red houlou who had been their first attempt at this breeding thing. KRISTOFOR knows what's coming, but Dawson is more paying attention to when he can move and go say hi to the new dog.
"Agreed, let us go." At least he knows where 'the facility' is. Not a complete virgin on this topic anymore. He signals for Dawson to follow as he follows on the opposite side of the catfolk. Still leery of the other houlou.
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His ears betray his embarrassment for opening his jaws to speak, canting sideways briefly. But the catfolk says he has good Common? That's... very kind to say. Bowing his head in thanks, Kristofor keeps walking, keeping his tail raised off the ground just enough to avoid the thick fur carving a dust trail of his footprints. The last thing he needs is every dog in this city on his trail.
Oh, where's he from? "I am from beyond the northwestern forests. Animal folk like us live simply out there, sometimes mimicking humans in lifestyle." Hence his cubhood of wearing humanlike clothes and shoes to avoid standing out too much once he had started living with his aunt and uncle. "I am here to make an honest living and learn about how humans live." It's always nice to e able to write home and tell his family about what he's learned.
The fluffy black and not-black hound's greeting sounds gruff to his ear. Sort of like waking fox friend first thing in the morning. But tail wags are good. Dawson gives a receiving yip-bark of greeting. He doesn't NEED to be right next to the other dog to smell well. Dog! New dog! Woof! Wag tail!
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