And here's to you, Professor Whistlefoot

A soft bark brought Cassiel's attention from where he was working up a really good sulk. He blinked and focused his gaze on a slightly older, slightly taller, leggy black male who seemed to have none of his own reservations about standing in the chilly water. "Oh lovely, someone else stupid enough to be wandering around in this cock-up," his mouth said in a particularly sullen manner before his brain caught up to it. He eyed the other male and wrinkled his nose before puffing out a sigh that steamed the cold air in front of him. "You're going to get a case of trenchfoot, you keep standing about in the wet like you are. Pads'll fall right off and you'll be limping for ages until the new fills in. Could get infected right easy. Gangrene. It isn't pretty." The graphic words were spoken in a distant, clinical manner, his head tilted to look down at the other male disapprovingly. What? An ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. His pawpads fell off and he'd be crying for the nearest healer to save his feet, wouldn't he? And who did it seem that would end up being? You guessed it... Cassiel. He narrowed his mismatched eyes at the male and finished up simply, "Get yourself up out of the water, then. Dry off."