Redhawk Caldera Look what they've done to my brain, ma

Nightjar panted lightly as the fox swung inward in a tight spiral down toward the lake. His muscles pulled back to slow his momentum as he continued tailing it, and only when Elwood approached from the side did his attention draw away from the fox for a second. His good ear swung forward and then back, signalling acceptance, and his lips drew together into a soft woof of acknowledgement. He read his uncle's body language well and in response his hackles rippled slightly and, for the first time in fifteen minutes of pursuit, the tawny wolf surged forward.

The fox realized the change in the game just moments too late, and Nightjar's reaching jaws managed to clap shut on the tip of its tail. Wagging his own at half-mast, a sinuous motion that suggested play, the adolescent arched his neck and yanked the fox backward. It scrabbled as it collided with his chest, but he'd already released it and was poised to chase it again. From now on, the game wasn't just "chase the fox", it was "how many times can you grab the fox", and it was Elwood's turn.