Reflection

Wayne McCoy · 12-17-2011, 12:58 PM

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but our hearts will need us to be steady and strong

so we can stand and face the fire

burning higher and higher

Word Count → 507 :: Bahhh this post sucks. xD Thanks for starting this, by the way.

Four paws rather than four hooves struck the ground in a rhythmic pace, and the cowboy hat normally perched atop the square head was clamped between white teeth along with a small woven basket. The forest rose up around the running canine, barren trees intermixed with evergreens as he wandered farther north. It had been a long time since he had gone this way, but the need to get away from his own pack had increased more and more—and perhaps part of him hoped to run across a certain small woman who’d run off on him.

Thoughts of Dixie paraded through his mind once more, and Wayne had to stop and huff loudly. “Quit feelin’ sorry for yourself, beef-headed yack,” he growled through clenched teeth. “She ain’t betrayed you or nothin’. She just ran off alone ’cause she’s a grown woman. She don’t need you followin’ her around like a lost puppy all the time.” He shook his head once more and loped back into the woods, trying to think about anything else.

His best friend’s absence had caused him plenty of problems, though it also brought those problems to light. After he’d woken to hear that she’d gone off to visit the other packs, he’d had half a mind to chase after her and drag her kicking and screaming back home—but no. This was supposed to be his chance to make friends in his new pack and learn how to adapt. The only problem was that his only friends remained her and the horses, and the pack was too small and, besides the leaders and Jazper’s brood, full of too many former loners to make socialization easy. He’d grown too used to constant company, and he missed it fiercely.

The Labrador mix slowed his pace when he could hear a river ahead, and he let out a sigh. As cold as it was, dunking himself in freezing water might wake him up and bring him to reality. He dropped his things long enough to shift, placing his cowboy hat back on his head and grabbing the basket in his hand, trying to ignore the painful stretch of the scar cutting across his abdomen. Perhaps he could catch some fist while he was out here, now that he didn’t have anything other than his hat and the fur on his back to be stolen.

As he sauntered toward the river, however, the young man found that someone else was already fishing there—an older woman, a collie dog mix with reddish and white fur. He was familiar with such herders from the south; his family had often given them a hand while running across them on the road. The familiar breed put him at ease a bit, and while the smile he wore was small as he approached her, it was at least friendly.

“Howdy,” Wayne greeted, tipping his hat politely. She smelled of Ichika, the pack that Saul belonged to; he wondered if she would know anything about Gypsy and how she was doing.

Wayne McCoy

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