"Careless," he chided not unkindly, satisfied that her lungs bore no evident damage. The earpieces of the stethescope he removed, but the contraption continued to hang about his neck, lest he need it again. Whether he spoke of the grandly-named fox or Miss Sprout, Stan could not have said. Both, maybe.

"Just as what we might consume with ease may be dangerous to some beasts, so too are some toxins to us naught but a mild annoyance to our furred companions." While his expertise was in people, not their pets, he was not so ignorant of the broad strokes of zoological medicine. "What would your Tchaikovsky have done had you condemned yourself to bed—or worse—in your valiant pursuit of him?"

Stan had moved so that the two were facing one another once again, though he busied his attentions with the contents of his medical bag, looking for... nothing, in particular. Perhaps another place to direct his eyes.