Barrow Fields love 'em and leave 'em

In all his (very short) years, Dingo had never adapted to the cold. One might think he'd get big and bushy like all the other wolves around, or at least adapt in other ways to compensate, but he never cottoned on to anything. Someone should make him a sweater or something — he was thinking about making just such a fashion statement with the next warm body he encountered, when he heard a call, and dully turned to greet whatever had made it. He would've been quicker on the uptake but Dingo often thought he was cold-blooded — much better suited to the summertime and the warm regions of the south, and made slow and stupid in the cold. It was just as likely he was born slow and stupid, but don't go telling him that.

So he turns, kind of in slow-motion because his body feels stiff and awful and he's not entirely pleased to have company, but then he spots the dappled girl. She is a girl, too. Her youth is obvious, her body almost at its full size but not proportionally correct — he can tell, mostly because Dingo is the sort of creep that would hang out at a high school well after graduation, trying to charm the new arrivals. Fresh blood and all that — cherries to pop.

The sight of her warms him all over, and he's shrugging off the negative funk that's been harrowing him from the get-go.

Well hello! What're you doin' way out here in the middle-a nowhere? You are real, right? Not part of my subconcious or something, eh? He hoped not, anyway. Without waiting for her reply, he was slinking on over, tail wagging in a friendly manner but his body poised in a slightly more predatory manner; Dingo did his best not to push in to her space too far, but he wanted to get a good look at her — and my, my, he quite liked what he'd found already.