The alcohol content hasn't hit Foster full-bore yet, but it doesn't have to; the nausea, the loathing and revulsion and the quasi-hysteria more than make up for it. Still, if Foster were yet plantigrade, Herbert might have had a chance to get him upright. Unguligrade, however, even getting him on his feet is a hilarious improbability--his legs are too long, too jointed, the feet he has to stand on too fine, even three-toed and thick-hooved as they are.

No, Foster is best left on the ground where he belongs, alternating between being dragged and crawling on all fours like an animal.

And he wheezes in Herbert's grasp, coughing and laughing again--but even incoherently reeling, he is frighteningly obedient, and he makes it onto the bed where commanded. His only independent action comes when he raises one paw, apparently in anticipation of some act--wiping his chin, maybe--but forgets immediately what it is and just leaves it hovering there instead, his paw bent at the wrist, claws hanging, curving inches from his own face.