Arrow Lake can you spare a dam?

A bolt of black; the other hunter threw herself at their target. With a sharp turn the beaver nearly escaped; Finley only caught a flash of the wordless plea before also flinging herself back into the fray—seemed this rodent had fight in it yet. But the fangs clamped in its tail sealed its fate, and Finley ended its misery with a sharp bite to the neck. Slick fur and blood’s tang poured into her mouth; not the world’s most pleasant combination, but the fat would be plentiful.

She kept hold a short while after the squirming had stopped, catching her own breath. Then Finley lifted her head, and limp the beaver fell with the grace of a neglected ragdoll. “Excellent work,” she said, with an approving lick across her muzzle. “Shall we split?”

The invitation came automatically, much rehearsed but no less genuine. Moments after speaking it dawned on her (with nagging reluctance) that, as part of a pack, she ought to bring her share back to their cache. But would anyone in the canyon have a taste for beaver? Regardless, the offer was on the table. Finley could negotiate; they had plenty to share.