Whitefish River as the crow flies

The river was where Thyra often went to scout for signs of prey- as they would come to the riverbank in search of open water for a drink, and left behind hoofprints and footprints that could easily be identified. She chortled when she saw the messy tracks of a porcupine- too low to the ground to leave only pawprints behind, and could see the sweeping markings from its low, bristly tail as well. She found a dropped quill, and sniffed it gingerly. It wouldn't be terribly useful, but it could be dangerous. The next time she came to scout, snow might cover it- and she might step right down onto it. 

So, thoughtfully, she picked it up and carried it along with her, the tip of it poking out through her lips. She was careful to avoid tonguing it, knowing that it would just as easily embed itself in the tender pink flesh, though she was tempted to play with it. She rolled it from one side of her mouth to the other, using her lips, keeping it still between the ridges of her teeth. 

Once she found an open patch of water that she could reach without worrying about the ice underfoot giving away beneath her, she opened her mouth, and allowed it to fall in. 

Satisfied, she waved her tail and turned to prance along the riverbanks, halting when she saw a figure in the distance.