Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step.
So it’s a dog. That’s something he’s yet to see after the world went to shit.
“Merle—c’mere I found a dog!” he called out, and after no reply he simply shrugged his shoulders.
Continuing to pet the dog, of course.
You’re dumb as shit, lil’ D.
He was much too lazy to bother revealing his own identity again, as a creature wholly incapable of human speech would prove far too difficult to accomplish, so he accepts the ear scratches gracefully, and lets his tail thump back and forth.
But — he does give Daryl a gentle nip, because why the fuck not?
The nip made his hand draw back so he could look at his hand. When he noticed there wasn’t a scratch or anything major to worry about, he went back to petting the dog.
