The Sonoran sun beat down on Ricardo as he trudged across the barren desert. If only his water would hold out. If only he didn't lose his way. If only - - -
The hot dry wind carried the faint hysterical yapping sounds that would strike terror into the stoutest heart. Minarchs had found his scent. Ricardo listened, thinking frantically. There was no shelter anywhere, no way he could shut out the voracious flying beasts. No defense against the death of a thousand nips. The orange and black wings of the swarm carried them swiftly across the trackless waste until, all too soon, Ricardo could make out the individual tiny bodies.
"What asshole," he thought to himself, "would put wings on a chihuahua?"