Grouse Thicket We are not pissing on the corpse of Joan Rivers.

A month is a long time for a dog. A month consists of two walks a day, maybe three if you're lucky and the weather is agreeable. A month is new-scent after new-scent gathered up for future trace. It is three days of chasing the neighbours cat, then two weeks of midnight racoons while still having space in between for a gold old-fashioned garbage dive; and that's not even the half of it. A dog could live it up within the span of one month and have plenty of stories to share at the dog park.

Except if you've found yourself lost in the biggest off-leash park ever, surrounded by the same smells day in, day out. With no idea where to find the kibble stash. A month of confused dashing-about between clusters of weird trees. Of peeing on the same stump over and over because you forgot you'd revisited the same area eight or nine times by then, and thought, Oh! There's someone else out here like me! If I find them maybe they have answers. A month of wondering why your one possible friend - who looked like some kind of wildly unkempt shepherd - escorted you through the woods only to leave you somewhere new, to start the process over again.

One month. Blackheart had very little to show for it. A few scrapes and fresh bruises, with her older bruises - along her lower back - having bloomed and mostly faded by now. No kibble. But she'd found the smell of something almost like chicken and had been tracking it to the best of her ability. What she'd do upon finding this thing, she wasn't quite sure. It called to some deep part of her psyche — and more importantly, her stomach. Sometimes her belly flip-flopped at some of the scents she'd discovered during her roaming, but it was this musky almost-familiar aroma that drew her onward now, through the thicket.

And out of the corner of her eye she saw something strut among the bushes. It was the first motion she'd seen, the first proof of life, since @Bronco. Blackheart dove towards it through shafts of broken sunlight, kicking up motes of pollen and whatever else lined the forest's floor. She got so very close! But her instinct was to chase, and as eager as she was for something to eat, and as close as she got to the fat, ginger-mottled pheasant, she did not think to grab.

There was a small window of opportunity during which the sleek dog with its long stride was looming over the bird, but she did not know what to do in that moment, and the window shut. Blackheart was watching the pheasant so intently that she wasn't aware of the contours of the forest around her; the tangle of brambles, patches of dry needles, piles of sticks that sagged beneath her steps — and then the stump. She hit it with her chest and the meaty thunk punctuated the moment.

The bird kept racing through the undergrowth, and as the wind was briefly knocked from Blackheart's lungs and she bowed beside the stump, the pheasant's hurried laughter drifted to nothing.

Bettahlatethannevahhhhh <3 Your entire post is gold, btw. Already gave you kudos but it's worth mentioning again.

He traipsed through thickets moist with dew, following the lure of downy feathers and odd footprints where the ground was moist to where he knew there would be feathered game. While he enjoyed the thrill of seeking game worthy of a foe, he found his highest success rate stemmed from ambushing and catching smaller prey animals, which could be an effortless experience for the sizeable male. But the real trick of hunting feathered game lay in the approach- and that the game could be lost before it was even begun should he have a botched stalk. 

He flinched and crouched when he heard the sound of frantic, heavy wingbeats- the telltale sign of a flushed bird- followed by a short, dense thud. Had the bird hit a tree? His bourbon gaze was drawn toward the canopy overhead where he saw the silhouette of the bird disappear amongst the shadows, and came to the conclusion that it wasn't the bird that had caused the sound. He paused for a moment, and considered the likely outcome- that perhaps whatever it was that had flushed the bird had caught another, and the thump might've been the sound of it being grabbed and hauled to the ground. He drifted forward a few steps as he instinctively sought any trace of scent, and locked on to one that made his eyes narrow and his tail curl over his haunches. 

Like a child, he bounded forward, tromping through the ferns so that with every bound he was able to peek over the greenery until he saw the dark sheen of her coat. At first his expression was that of glee- thinking she'd caught a pheasant or partridge, and that her hunched posture was merely because she was either killing or devouring her prey- but he noticed in his last few bounds the subtle but aching swell of ribs and hip bones that he hadn't noticed before. She had been trim...But she looked like she'd lost weight since he'd seen her last- and he realized a moment later that she was in pain. 

He huffed as he skidded to a halt not far from her, ears and nose thrust forward to investigate her while maintaining a few metres of distance should she lash out. She was still a non-wolf creature, and her nature- while familiar- still not entirely understood. But he was intrigued nonetheless, and regardless of her exact species, he could feel her pain, and addressed her with a soft, pleading whine. As much as she'd lingered on his thoughts, and as much as he'd hoped to see her again...This wasn't how he'd wanted it to be.

Aw thank you!! <3 I hope this makes sense, aah.

The chaos of the botched hunt, from the tittering of the stupid bird with its cacophonous wings unfurled down to the indifferent rustling of the trees, it all faded away when she struck that stump. There was a momentary blankness as her nerves reacted to the blow, and then the thumping of her heart; it felt as if each beat grew more painful than the last, and she lost some time to it. There was a swarming silence that became a ringing, and as the pitch increased in her ears the drumbeat inside got deeper, until they somehow mirrored one another.

Only a few seconds had passed from the blow to the aftermath. It felt like longer - or like time ceased to matter. It hurt. The dog staggered and sank to her haunches, at least partway, and lost her balance as she gasped for air. Her chest would swell with a fresh bruise and she would ache for a while, however, it was not serious. The air had been knocked clean out of her and that was the real issue; she tried to inhale and could not. Her lungs spasmed.

Something took notice of her and was crunching its way through the foliage, but she could not hear it for the ringing; she could not see it as a white blank sheet pulled across her vision. And then all the sights and sounds came rushing back in around her: the tumult shaking the trees overhead so that they became deafening to her ears, like traffic in the city screeching all around. The pounding of feet on the pavement - no, steps that cut through ferns and scratched the surface of the soil.

Blackheart tried to steady herself around the pain in her chest and focus on some part of the forest, but she couldn't make sense of all the green and the black, she couldn't single out any sound that was familiar. She turned her head and felt a strain in her neck (having probably wrenched it at an odd angle after her collision) and punched the dirt as she rose up again, her haunches trembling. She saw a glimpse of autumnal fur and then those warm whiskey eyes.

If she had managed to catch her breath even for a second, it whooshed out of her again when she saw him. Bronco? Blackheart managed to rasp. The feelings ebbed a little bit. She studied his face, watching him draw closer but not too close, and slowly came back to herself. With a sputter and a cough she wheezed: You came back.

His tail waved when he realized that she remembered his name, though he did feel somewhat ashamed when he realized that he'd never learned his. He moved forward, tail waving, when he felt that there was at least somewhat of a comraderie established between the two that sparkled in her eyes. She was happy to see him- and looked relieved to have been found by someone familiar. As far as he could tell, she was alone- and while she didn't bear any marks to say that she'd been tangled up with anyone hostile, she did look more thin than she ought to be...This was summer- and there was plenty of game afoot. There was no reason for even a lone carnivore to be starving on their own at this time of year...Of course, providing that that carnivore had been raised in the wild, and taught how to kill and consume from a very young age. 

"Came back?" He asked, curiously. This wasn't where he'd seen her last, so it wasn't as though they were meeting, again, in the same place as last time. But perhaps she justhad a bad sense of direction...She wasn't the first one he'd met who had a poor sense of direction. His packmate Chanel was a scout- and even she got lost and wandered off from time to time. He shook his head and edged a bit closer, to chuff quietly and touch his nose to her cheek in a greeting, bewildered still by the softness of her fur...Though she looked a bit more dusty now, than she had the last time he'd seen her. "Are you alright? You look sort of..." He said, and his ears tilted back. "I mean, I don't mean to say you don't look good," He said, sheepishly correcting his tone, "But...You, uh...I get the feeling you're a bit clumsy sometimes, maybe?" He asked, with a tentative smile. This was, after all, only the second time he'd met her- and both times she'd taken a tumble.