Whitefish River all the sunlight's good for us

there had been a pack here, once. no longer. their scent markings were dwindling, the signs of their presence fading with time. perhaps a pile of dung here, an abandoned cache there. cam didn't know where they went, but he knew the swollen, half-frozen river was a treasure trove—and now he could explore it fully.

one of the faster moving bends was not iced over quite yet, and fish were here, swimming against the current and seeking solace in tumbled rock formations, where the water calmed. he sat crouched by the bank, watching them for a long while. eyes moving, following their every nuance. they were bigger and fatter than the fish in the forest pond.

rather than trying to scoop one out with a skinny foreleg, he instead shoved his head underwater and was suddenly overwhelmed by the chill that engulfed him. cam snapped his teeth but to no avail; they found no purchase, no meat.

he flung his head back and let loose a frustrated, explosive exhale, shivering profusely. shaking himself, he curled tighter and glared at his would-be quarry, water dripping from his chin. why couldn't he just catch one? what was wrong with him that he was still so rotten at this?