j - brother, you don't need to turn me away

He'd spotted them two nights ago: a band of deer heading up to the foothills, with only a few stags to guard them. Since his escape from captivity, his once robust frame had withered away to reveal the ripples of ribs on his sides, and the gentle mountain range of his spine. He needed a kill, or for lady luck to swoop in and jostle the sure-footed deer into slipping down a cliff...

But as day three dawns, and he stalks the deer further up into the mountains, the wind shifts and carries with it the heavy scent of a pack boundary. The wolfdog comes to a sudden halt and cowers low while his belly brushes against the frost-laden grass. He casts a fearful look over his shoulder and quickly slinks diagonally, away from the deer, to a small little gathering of bushes. He sits, tongue lolling from his mouth as he begins to pant, eyes flitting here and there.

Wolves. Part of his mind is torn with the near irresistible urge to alarm-bark at the invasive scent, but the other is clawing, biting and scratching at his will; it wants to investigate, to touch, to see the beasts. His crawls into a lying position, but almost immediately jumps to his feet again, rife with nervous tension. He whines, licks his lips, and lowers his head below his shaggy shoulders.

Suddenly he is overtaken by the feelings flooding his stupid half-dog brain, and punctuates his sonorous call with a few high-pitched barks.