A brow arches at that, glancing down at the dog and then back to Wynonna. He smiles, looking at the pitiful excuse of the dog and formulating a plan.

"You got an extra bottle of that moonshine around? I mean, if you did, a fellow might be willing to take this scrap of a thing, and not hurt him, mind you," he says, holding up a hand to stop anything that might accuse him of abuse of the dog. "And find him a home. No killing. No harming. Hell, maybe my roommates will look after him, since it's not like he's got fur or anything." That coat had to have come from somewhere, right? "And it's all good. You don't have to deal with the dog. I can put off finding out what fully sober is like for a bit longer. Everyone wins, right?"