Lost Creek Hollow Those Who Wander

Oh? There it is again, that darling, dropped with the casual air of a shed feather. How bold, also, to state in no uncertain terms that Dakota is wrong. The nerve might irk any other canine, but if Dakota prides himself on anything—and he has no shortage of ego fuel—then his ability to run with the punches is chief among them. He is unphased.

The mention of siblings catches the wolfdog’s attention too, the tease of tantalizing offerings in the plural. Perhaps one or more could offer a clearer look at the lineage. But to have adjacent family at all—would this chase dance precariously close to a claimed land?

Yet the concluding words and hum suggest no such thing. The offer is entertained, turned over, a well-worn stick for fetching that splinters in the hapless retriever’s mouth, tongue dripping blood, “sharp wood: do not bite” warning gone ignored.

Dakota, of course, is smarter than that. He takes careful note of the red label—and then rips it off and proceeds.

“Even with your siblings?” Another tease, a flash of teeth. Does Frankenstein’s mongerel think they’ll get a snap at the racing leader? Cute. “Mud’s not so bad.”

He punctuates this with a turn on his heels, kicking up a spray of Dog-Certified Fun Mud™ right for that well-manicured coat, and bolts.