Swiftcurrent Creek Turning myself into a toothbrush

The stocky wolf released a low, rumbling growl as he rubbed the side of his muzzle along the rough bark of a tree, as if that could take away the sting. A thin line of red blood lifted to the surface of the irritating wound—received from a rather grumpy fox he had ushered away from one of the packs caches. 

It itched, and while the wound itself was superficial, only slightly deeper than a scratch, it was the cherry on top of his life, it seemed. 

Pulling away from the bark, the Mayfair lifted his paw to rub against the side of his muzzle, not yet noticing the oncoming form of his pack mate.