Sleepy Fox Hollow spaziergang

The coywolf was blissfully unaware of the picture he was painting for the hollow's patriarch. Sabandija was not something he'd ever been called, although doubtlessly, some of the wolves he'd met out this way would've used it if they'd known the word. Rather, Dusty had heard his father shouting it at the retreating hides of unfamiliar coyotes. The ones that he sent on their way rather than eating or naturalizing them. Dusty Rose had assisted in all three of these pursuits on numerous occasions — his fathers and their army of coywolf children had done a good job of conquering the most desirable corner of the desert, and so there had always been visitors looking to make their play at gaining entry to the pack, or else scraping a bit of the des Peres territory off and claiming it as their own.

"Oh," said Dusty, pausing to consider the gargoyle's words. The desert had been an inhospitable and somewhat dull backdrop in which to raise young coywolves, but he'd always thought his childhood had been particularly kind.

"Dachs," he repeated, still sorting through his thoughts. Doubtlessly, this would be a word he'd struggle to recall when he next tried. "It wasn't bad," he said, picking his words more carefully, now. "I didn't mean to imply that. Some folks ain't as kind as they could be, but I don't expect it. And I wouldn't even if I was full-blooded. Family's the only ones that owes you anything, and my family's been plenty kind to me."

His bottlebrush tail gave a tentative wag.

"And you all've been kind to me, too," he told the man. "The hardest thing about my nature's that I get real sad when I'm alone. I don't know that lookin' different cuts my odds of finding friends all that much. And even if it did, I found 'em. And so I'm happy."

The coywolf scored the earth with his paws and then bowed down to rub his face and neck over the area.

"What was the valley like?" he asked, steering the conversation away from the more touchy-feely topic. "How come you left?"