He was getting bolder in his journeys, taking him further and further away from the Keep. This trip was his longest yet since arriving, trying to scout out any lifeforms that had started to grow or maybe, with any sort of luck, some plants that might herald the return of the herds to the area. Stark had caught an unusual scent, one that gave him pause - it seemed sort of wolfish, yet definitely not. Maybe it was some type of strange creature, or maybe it was something altogether unholy, he would never know. But he was presented with the figure of a massive black blot sprawled on the stones looking dismayed. 

"My mother always warned me that my face would stick that way if I held it for too long." Stark commented dryly, looking the beast over. Clearly not an animal that would make much of a dinner, at least not an easy kill - and certainly nothing he could get back to the packlands alone. He made a little snorting sound, tail twitching against his ankles. "I gotta ask the obvious - what are you?" Best to get it out of the way, after all. It saved the effort of trying to ignore the elephant in the room.

Life without the Cone of Shame was bliss.

Some might argue that “bliss” is too strong a word for what the Golden Retriever felt — but French Fry’s one remaining marble simply didn’t have the capacity to compare or quantify things that way. Things were good [read: wonderful, amazing, the best thing ever] — or they were bad [read: terrible, awful, the worst thing ever]. And life without an Elizabethan collar?

It was pretty damn good.

Big Mac and French Fry had been known to rip up the dog park back home with their antics, kicking up their heels and wreaking havoc like two little bulls in a tiny china shop. Now, though, their energy was largely dedicated to survival — and while French Fry always made time for a little bit of crazy, today his empty stomach was telling him to take it easy.

He lounged with his rounded russet muzzle planted neatly betwixt his splayed forelegs, brown eyes open and observant. The unease that hummed in the back of his mind like a steady thrum of white noise whenever he was separated from Mac wouldn’t let him sleep. The whittled down retriever never really slept out here unless Mac was nearby.

Anyway, French Fry wasn’t really tired; he was hungry.

It seemed that fortune was smiling down upon the empty-headed golden boy; after a beat, a slightly emaciated Columbian ground squirrel nosed its way out of a nearby burrow. It was an odd creature, though not totally foreign to French Fry; it looked like a squirrel that had been put together wrong somehow. At first, he was too engrossed in watching it to really know what he was looking at — his first inclination with anything, including a porcupine that had cost him a world of pain and a trip to the emergency veterinarian, was to sniff and befriend it. The loveable dolt lolled about, oblivious, while the rare chance at satiating his hunger chittered and poked about for sustenance that simply wasn’t there anymore.

Wait a minute.

The ground squirrel’s inventory check took him upwind of the golden mound of fur, and as a soft spring breeze teased French Fry’s nostrils, the dog involuntarily began to salivate. Blood and meat — an unfamiliar musk — and a whole bunch of dirt. That’s what the small furry creature smelled like. Blood and meat meant food, but while French Fry had chased many a squirrel in his day, he had never actually consumed one. Was it...safe to eat?

Would it make him a bad dog?

As if the tiny morsel could read French Fry’s more insidious thoughts, it alerted to some imagined source of danger and scampered toward the burrow mouth — and toward Fry. Instinct kicked in, a prey drive that wasn’t unlike the dog’s inane urge to chase cats and smaller dogs that ran suddenly past him, and the Golden Retriever was a blur of russet and cream as he charged forward to block the entrance. Skittering backwards and rapidly backpedaling, the ground squirrel gave French Fry a run for his money — but the ground squirrel was starving, just like everyone else in the Teekon Wilds. French Fry ran the creature down and snapped his jaws, squeezing his eyes shut at the weak spatter of blood that peppered his face. Even the ground squirrel’s blood was nearly black with dehydration at this point. At his prime, the little marmot should have weighed close to two pounds; now, though, he was lucky if he hit one and a half. The bitter, metallic taste of blood and the adrenaline rush from his first kill caused French Fry’s teeth to chatter like an enraged guinea pig.

On the defensive, French Fry crouched over his kill with a thready warning growl, his entire body stiffened nearly to the point of quivering. Mine. Mine. Mine. The mantra thrummed through him, causing his hackles to flare all along his spine, and suddenly he wanted Big Mac’s heavy bulk very, very badly. Snapping up the fresh kill in his jaws, French Fry took off like an arrow, too wired to realize that the Newfoundland was far from alone. With the ground squirrel still clasped gently in his soft retriever’s mouth, he approached the Stone Circle from the opposite side, facing Stark — which caused the unlikely trio to form an oblique triangle.

This was the first male wolf French Fry had encountered so far, and he was impressive to say the least. Piercing blue eyes illuminated the bistre-furred face with its arched grey brows and dots of diluted coffee brown. Neither brown nor grey but some black sand amalgam of the two, the wolf was impressive to say the least and far larger than the mahogany and cream retriever. His face, though, was kind enough in its roguish nonchalance. “I gotta ask the obvious — what are you?” he had asked just before French Fry’s arrival.

And for once, the cowardly lion was the one to speak first.

“Wurr raws,” he mumbled through a mouthful of ground squirrel, before he set the creature neatly between his forepaws. Keeping his head lowered as he often did when he wasn’t quite ready to give the ball back, “Dogs,” French Fry corrected himself. “We’re dogs.” Somewhat hesitantly, French Fry directed his attention to Big Mac, leaving himself open to any sudden movements from Stark — the Golden Retriever was a guileless creature and had no reason to fear the larger male, impressive as he was. “Mac, look,” he insisted as would a small child holding up a prime example of macaroni art. “I caught this broken squirrel for you to eat.” Casting a glance toward the other wolf, “You can have some, too,” French Fry offered with blithe pride in his accomplishment. “I killed it,” he added, just in case nobody had heard him the first time. “I bit it with my teeth.”

“No! No biting!” came the inexorable Voice of Reason.

“I mean, I only bit it a little bit,” clarified the guilt-riddled retriever.

He offered an even smile when the other creature agreed with him, moving to sit himself up. Stark could see the sheer size behind him, laughing as he marveled at his gender. "Boys, girls, we come in all sorts." He said with a little wink. He was definitely 100% male and happy with that fact. He licked his lips, surprised when a second weird beast came tumbling along, this one with a meager kill that they generously offered to split. He smiled brightly at the two of them, looking between the two of them for a few long moments. Okay. Dogs. Dogs were a little wonderful. 

He smiled at the two of them, nodding at them both. "Dogs, huh? Well. That's cool. I'm Stark." He offered at the exchange of names - Big Mac and Fry. The broken squirrel he looked down at, debating on if he should return the morsel to the two but he decided his stomach needed it too much. He leaned down and took the kill, a grateful little sound leaving his lips at the taste. "Thank you, very much." He said softly. "You two - dogs - you aren't usually out here, huh? I mean, I've never seen your type before." He pointed out, perhaps unnecessarily. 

Stark wanted to give them something for their generosity, unsure of what the males might benefit the most from. A trade off. They'd given him something so he wanted to give them something, too, depending on what they needed the most. 

Guilt was a hard pill to swallow, and like the many times he’d been caught stealing food off the counter or the table, French Fry found his appetite to be quite suddenly lacking. He watched, clearly puzzling out some deep inner conflict, as the Newfoundland divided the meager kill into thirds — but when the meat was laid before him, hunger flared anew. French Fry vacuumed his portion of the ground squirrel as was his wont; it never even brushed his tastebuds before racing down his ever-hungry gullet. “Stark,” French Fry repeated dutifully, committing the name to memory. Despite the single marble rolling around in his skull, he could usually be relied on to remember names.

Dropping bonelessly to his stomach as he licked his paws and rubbed his muzzle like a cat, “Usually we’re Home,” French Fry answered, warming to the wolf with a spirited wag of his golden and cream tail. “Sometimes we ride in the car and go to the park, and this time we went camping, but they went to get snacks so we have to wait for them.” He glanced up at his big brother and Stark with a goofy dog grin, his muzzle parted in a rolling pant, black-lined lips tipped upwards at the corners as his eyes half-closed.