The dog--wolf?--seems distressed, and he isn't quite sure why. She's friendly enough, bumping her head into his hand and wagging her tail enthusiastically, but her whines indicate duress. When he notices she keeps looking behind him, at the rest of the group still trudging along, he rubs her ear again.

"Don't worry too much, I think," he says, rising back to his feet. "I mean, sure, every bunch has its bad apples, but most of the folks I've run into here seem pretty decent; I doubt there's many of 'em who would just keep walking if someone fell or was getting left behind."

He's not sure she understands (but he's not ruling it out; he's met a lot of talking animals before, and he's not about to just discount anything anymore), but hey, he had to try, right? He furrows his brow a little and takes his bag off his shoulder, rummaging for a moment to pull out one of the little ration packs he'd been given. She's not carrying anything--a dog wouldn't have been given rations, naturally. He's not sure when the last time she ate might have been, so he pulls out one of the little jerky strips he's been afforded and offers it to her.

"Y'hungry?" he asks. "They didn't give us a whole lot, but you look way too fancy to be wild; you're probably used to eating pretty good, right? You're prolly famished after all this nonsense. Go on, take it."