He draped the dogtags around his neck. He’d take them back to her; she might feel more comfortable wearing them. He could tell the ponies that she was blood type B+ and Catholic, but neither of those things were likely to be useful information for them. If he could remember his own blood type, it might be handy. He was pretty sure he wasn’t O. Of course, since he wasn’t sure what types of blood were compatible and what ones weren’t, maybe it wasn’t helpful information at all. Then again, maybe they’d gotten around that whole problem of blood types by cloning her own blood . . . he’d heard about that being done on earth before elective surgeries—to avoid the risk of disease or adverse reactions—but perhaps they’d invented a way to make the process quick enough to provide blood on demand in the emergency room.