Serpent Lake that's not a riot - its a feast (lets eat)

His poor attempt at field anthropology (or whatever the wolf equivalent was) came to nothing. The two were just as uncomprehending of each other as they were on their first meeting.

The words that left the boy's mouth were a guttural gruel of consonants. Gavrel couldn't even tell where one syllable ended and the other began. The most significant piece of information -- the boy's name, in fact -- was lost on his ears.

You don't make no sense at all, he grumbled. He at least recognized the look on his face, something close to disapproval.

Your mom never played 'got your tail' with you? The tragicomedy here, lost on Gavrel, was that Drusk was perhaps the first wolf he had met with a mother more neglectful than his own. He sucked at his teeth, tsk-tsk-tsk. Sad life, kid.

He shook water from his pelt, felt galvanized by the new lightness of his fur. He returned to the area where they had spent the last few nights, a small depression in the ground that served as paltry shelter from the wind. If Drusk didn't follow and wake him, he would close his eyes and fall into a fitful sleep.