Herbalists' Cache young punks, get off my lawn

Sax's fox red ears flattened in displeasure as she curled her creaking haunches beneath her and blew out an irritable breath, a soft, barking cough riding on its tail.  Her pale pink tongue lolled from her jaws but she sucked it back in immediately at the sound of a stranger's voice: "Hey!"

Catlike, Saxifrage twisted her ears toward the boy to let him know that she could hear him, but she took her time about acknowledging him in return.  Given her vulnerable position — lone wolf, old wolf, approaching winter — she wasn't altogether keen on strangers.  Not that she was particularly insecure, mind you.  The tawny bitch feared neither god nor demon.  She had brought children into the world, buried two mates, led a pack, and mercilessly bullied her rivals.

It'd been a good life.  A full life.

Sax was old now, and tired, but there were few wolves as scrappy as she could be.  She was confident enough that she didn't feel the need to assert her dominance over the boy — but she had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn't going to be a particularly quiet companion.

At long last, "What's it look like, boy?" she muttered in a voice guttural and rough with disuse and general Grumpy Grandma Syndrome.  "I'm breathing, aren't I?"  She turned then to look at him, taking in his tall, lanky frame and blue-gray eyes.  Well, he wasn't much to look at, was he?  His enormous paws and tipped-over ear reminded Sax of a much younger wolf, but he was taller than she was and just beginning to fill out.  She guessed he was somewhere between five and eight months old; it was so hard to keep track of them after awhile.