Cheyenne snorted in laughter in spite of herself, tried to fight it, and then realized it was stupid to wallow in private misery when he'd just made her laugh. The she-wolf grabbed a pillow and thowmped him with it, and none too gently, either.
"If yer so virile, Davis, how come I ain't up t'my hips in yer other pups?" she taunted, but it was mostly good natured, "Anyhow, if I wind up with another three sons, y'won't be virile fer much longer."
Not that she would actually mind if it was three boys, but there was that tiny voice in her head that had turned into a pretty loud yell: that at least one could be the daughter she'd been wanting for a long while. Healthy pups came first, but after what she'd been through, she felt like she'd be able to put a bow on the whole Rufus business. Or more accurately, tie it to a concrete block and toss it in the black waters held back by the Hoover Dam.
Before she could stop herself (and the idea of Rufus tied to cinderblocks, drowning, brought her mood back up), she asked, "Y'give any thoughts t'names, Big Daddy?"