This rehearsal was turning out to be pretty shitty. Pacing across the bank of the lank, Kipling's head hung low, mouth full of feathers as the limp body of her catch hung from her jaws. She'd been practicing for little over an hour now with unsatisfactory results. The plan had been set in stages. First, she'd catch something, which even though it had been a simple quacker doing so had been a hassle. She nearly growled at the memory of trying to wrestle the damn thing to the ground, attempting to catch it's neck and snap it, not that it'd been easy to achieve having been pounded by wings at the time.
But now she was on step two, and step two was the harder part of the ordeal. In fact she rather have the duck slapping her face again. The whole thing from the get go was intended to be a show of skills. I killed this bird, look I'm useful, accept me into your pack. But that sounded stupid, and no matter which what she attempted to word it the whole plan seemed to be stupid, and she wished she'd thought this whole thing over better. Why was it that she was a wolf who couldn't figure how to be apart of a pack. It would have been simple, live together, do your part, and survive.
But the more she thought about it, she hated of how hard it had been for her to kill this duck in the first place, it shouldn't have been the struggle it was, she wasn't a yearling she was two fucking years old. She shouldn't even have been rehearsing how to join a pack, how ridiculous that seemed. This wasn't a show of skills, it was a lie. Kipling wasn't good at hunting, she definitely wasn't good at keeping herself from starving, she just wasn't good at anything! Boiling over with frustration, her fangs came down, shredding and tearing at the dead bird in a frenzy.
By the end of her fit she slumped to the ground with exhaustion, having made a great mess of the creature and yet neglecting to take a single bite.