Redhawk Caldera I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti

Stuffed to the gills with pork, Wildfire relaxed near the edge of the clearing overlooking Lake Rodney, feeling quite content indeed. She had recovered well from her episode five days before; in fact, it was nothing but a distant memory already. At the moment, the young puppy—now eleven weeks of age and about to enter a great growth spurt—wanted for nothing. She flopped onto her side with a happy sigh.

She fell asleep. She dreamed of this and that, although it was all forgotten when she snapped awake suddenly. Some time had passed. The clear sky had become gray and ominous. Wildfire sat up, trying to gather her bearings. What had woken her? Another growl of thunder gave her her answer. The pup licked her lips and stood, golden eyes searching the rendezvous site for any sign of her family. She saw no one.

More intrigued than afraid, the youth began to lope around the clearing's edge, intermittently peering at the sky as it grew darker and drearier. It would begin raining any moment, she knew. She wasn't particularly bothered by the thought. What interested her more was the peals of thunder already growing in volume and the flashes of light now pulsing against the horizon. Wildfire paused, the red fur along her spine standing on end as she observed one such distant lightning strike.