"Woof, alright," Jupiter cringes, nose wrinkling. For a second, she holds that pose, unsure of what to do. Well, not unsure of what to do, unsure if it's really what she wants to do. It is, she supposes. Wyatt looks like he's about to horf again any second, and clearly he's eaten something that's swirled his brain right up. Just leaving him like this makes her own stomach feel weird (or is that just the smell?). "That didn't look like forty cuppy cakes worth of vom, so I'm gonna get you a trash can."

She scoops the random french bulldog up under her arm like a quaffle — who does this even belong to?? — and stands while it scrambles and whines, getting nowhere in her grip, and kicks a waste basket in Wyatt's direction with her filthy shoes. There's really no way to look cool while mom-ing and underclassman. Oh well. "Want water, too?"