Heron Lake Plateau show me your peepis

Clover was abruptly startled from her flashback reverie when she was bowled over by something huge and horrible and probably a bear—she lost her breath for a moment, thefuisgoinon—and she lay there flat for a moment, recovering and trying to gather herself, when a horrifically annoying voice caused her to lurch upward and squint ahead. Oh, the humiliation!!!!!!! It wasn't a bear, it was King of the Fucktards, Screech. YOU'RE GONNA REGRET THAT, Clover bellowed as she stumbled to a stand, a little woozy from the collision, blinking roughly to process what the hell she was witnessing.

A coyote? Well, it hadn't gotten in near where she was patrolling, but it had gotten in somehow. It was making a bid at an escape, and Clover was inclined to let it so the blame would fall squarely on this asshat's shoulders. He should have seen her there, and her pride smarted that she had been bowled over so easily—no surprise, given her petite stature, a sore spot for her—and this thought made her want to turn away.

Was her pride so much that she would let a coyote get away with stealing? Which was worse, the personal offense, or the pack offense?

Clover bristled. She swallowed her pride and moved in short-legged strides, picking up the pace with a huff. Her petite stature lent her some speed, though perhaps not as much as someone rangier like Fiadh. She broke into a gallop, hoping to catch up and intervene with the trespasser. She'd be happy enough to get the meal back; killing wasn't really on her mind.