Moonspear thirsty moon

The newest brood was relatively quiet, so she fluidly slid from their immediate reach out into the early night to go relieve herself and visit the creek. Upon her return, she had to loiter at the den's entrance and took the opportunity to relish in the fresh air. While she did not like leaving them, not when they were still so very young, they could keep each other cozy at least a bit; there were enough of them to last them a few more moments. After a week of nothing but revolving around the whelps, she felt like at least a minute without them would do her disheveled, sore self some measure of good.

Scowling up, and out into the light, slow snowfall, she maintained her disdainful stance on her puppies coming before the true warmth of spring.. but there was nothing to be done about it except tolerate it now. There, perched over the threshold, she sat keenly on watch and let the flurries fall on her coat only to melt soon after.

It had been about a week, she supposed. The days bled together sometimes but she trusted her judgement to get a good guess at least. She still ached deeply, and they were bleeding nutrients from her as she nursed six mouths. The two pale ones--the eerie small pair that made her reluctant from the start, remained much smaller than their comparable littermates and her patience grew thin, especially treading a fine feverish line some days as they all sought to run her ragged in all the ways they could.

So in that week, she had observed and contemplated her next move.. and finally, she had decided that was all there was to it. She would wait no longer and not face an outcome like last year again. This time, they'd take care of it.

For the good of them all.