Porcupine Ridge things my heart used to know

The man gripped the ground with his paws, seeking steadiness where he found only reeling. His advances were his sole form of communication and, having been rejected in that, the beta dog was unsure of how to proceed. Jhala explained the situation, but of course, Farstep didn't hear it. He was beginning to be able to tell the difference between a normal vocalization, the sort he was used to, and the sort these wolves used in abundance, but to him they were still all growls and grunts. The "other" sort was a little different, a little less like pebbles skittering down cliffs, but just as nonsensical to his ears.

Diane's posture was apologetic. Ordinarily the male would've taken the invitation to sweep forward and reassure her, and he almost did—he faltered forward a step before halting. His touch was unwelcome, her reaction had said, and he wouldn't presume that that had changed in the last few beats. Jhala herself was doing nothing much aside from their back-and-forth "other" form of vocalization, so Farstep, understanding that this was not a situation with which he could work, woofed lightly, swayed his tail back and forth a few times to dispel any tension, then turned and loped away.