Whitefish River the raven unfolded its wings and turned daylight into dark

It took no time before he found where the ice was thin and brittle and his massive paws broke and crushed it until he had a suitable hole to drink from. The white wolf bent down and lapped gingerly, slaking his thirst with unhurried mouthfuls so as to avoid a cold-headache. He even partook of a few splinters of ice, gathering them on his tongue and chomping them between his molars. Like the snow before, this served no purpose other than it was a small, simple thing that he enjoyed doing.

Finished with his business at the river's edge, Skwol raised his head and turned around, licking the last bit of moisture from his mouth. That is when he saw her — and at once, all the peace and ease in his manner left him. The soft furs of Skwol's plush coat hardened into daggers, and his yellow-gold eyes flared as he skimmed his ears over his skull and drew his mouth back in a way that exposed teeth from his canines to his molars. His tail squirmed anxiously as it pressed against his hocks, and his strong spine sloped down as he hunched back into himself and away from her.

This display of raw, visceral fear was disturbingly brief; only as long as it took for the white wolf to determine that she was alone, that no pound of hooves nor holler of devils accompanied her, and that took no time at all. He surged forward then with a savage thundering roar, his eyes now blazing with a rare and dangerous fury. Skwol's ears were flung forward, his tail ram-rod and bristling, and the only teeth he bared now were the fangs he wanted to bury in her throat. He charged her with frightening speed and unstoppable power of a runaway freight train, in the same spell-binding way that rooted stupefied deer to the tracks and doomed them...

...only, he did stop.

Snow flew ahead of him as he braked, until he was frozen in total stillness except for the rapid flaring of his nostrils.

This dog smelled like a wolf.