Wheeling Gull Isle Freedom is mine. The earth is still.

Freedom is mine
The earth is still
I feel the wind
I breathe again
And the skies clear
The world is waking. (Jean Valjean, Les miserables.)

John had emerged from the Lion’s den on a crisp fall day, the wind blowing through his coat, the smell of the ocean air. “What a beautiful day.” He thought to himself. He cantered towards the main camp, where the Island family resided. He poked his nose around, sniffing for fresh scents. Nothing. His sight revealed nothing, nor did his smell. He came to the conclusion that howling might be his best option. He raised his muzzle to the blue sky, and let out a howl of request. He did this once, and sat down where he could view the island best, and waited.