Silver Moraine his garden at argenteuil

Someone from PHX perhaps? He's pretty close.

The river led him north, emptying out in to the soil in a manner that made the earth soft and pliant beneath him. He did not enjoy the first touch of his paws against the mud, and was urged by his own personal narcissism to turn tail; yet there seemed to be no other way. Renoir thought to climb the nearest ridge and find a route along the mountainside, or perhaps to go further east -- but the daylight was wearing thin. It was during this deciding moment that something sprang free of one of the marsh trees. The boughs creaked with the weight of it, and the movement caught in his eye. The boy's hunger overrode whatever sense of propriety he held about himself, and thus he plunged headlong in to the mire; he struggled for some time to reach solid ground, but emerged unscathed -- soured by the smell of his coat, but otherwise fine. Whatever had piqued his instinct to chase had vanished hastily enough.

He grumbled epithets to himself, a mixture of his Cajun and the common-tongued vulgarities he had heard lesser beasts speak back home. If only maman could see him now - or hear him! Renoir looked less like the angel she so loved and more the fiend. Even after shaking off the excess water he felt unclean. The evening was beginning to settle around him - the air was biting cold - but he had to keep on going. It was easier once the land was firm enough, flat enough. Ren strode as confidently as he could across the field, dragging his heels by the time night had fully consumed him; though once his paws felt the firmness of stone beneath them, he was roused from his tired stupor and looked vacantly down.