Ain't no mountain high enough

hello!

To a dog whose life had been chain-link fences and kennels, the wide-open land was nigh-overwhelming. The company of her companions was welcome, as she was used to the sound of their voices. However, the closeness of their gatherings was not something she was accustomed to, and at times it grew too much. After a while, their company seemed to close in on her, and panic gripped her. In an effort to calm down, she wandered blindly. In her short travels (she was careful not to stray too far,) she drew near to packlands, but as she was unfamiliar with this concept, she paid them no heed.

Junkyard Dog came upon a river, cool and clear in the snow. She longed to swim in it, to sooth her crawling skin. Her mind cobbled together a short, clipped fantasy in which the water healed with its touch. It pulled away the dry, flaking skin and knit new skin over the open sores, then finally sprouted new fur over the bare spots. Junkyard Dog whimpered, thinking of this, disappointed that it could not be a reality. Instead she drank of the river, and in doing so caught sight of a creature farther up the bank. It was doglike, familiar, but not quite right. Large and white and beautiful, but terrible. The creature struck fear into Junkyard Dog, and a low, rumbling growl began to build in her chest.