Dawnlark Plains carry me home

"I'm Big Mac!" he said with a prideful lilt in his voice. "I'm called a Newfoundland...I'm a dog!" The trouble with all that was he had no concrete definition of dog for these lithe beasts of the forests. He only knew that he was one; the inability to compare himself to something this far from the mainland was troublesome indeed. "I think I'm like a variation of you," he commented with a quizzical tilt of his head. "But bigger." He grinned just before emphasizing, "And droopier."
 
"You're a...wolf right?" the Newfie questioned courteously before the she wolf felt compelled to explain her heritage to him. "I've met two of your kind before. Nice gals." He settled heavily back against his haunches - a faint groan squeezed in his chest as the pain of weariness crept up his back - and fondly reminisced the encounter.  "What's your name?"