Swiftcurrent Creek This ain't nothin' new to me

A small bark and then he called. Sending some prey your way, Moss.

Then without any other words, he jumped into the bushes and with a growl and a snap of teeth, he routed two fat, plump winter hens towards moss. He was hot on their heals, and he was close enough that they weren't trying to fly, but it was only a matter of time, before one or both would attempt to leap and flap in the air. 

Another growl and he snapped at the nearest one's wings, pushing it faster and forward. They were outpacing him, but right into the waiting jaws he hoped of Moss.