for there are many ways to kill a man they say

If you know where to look, the squealing and excited yips of wolf pups are hard to miss. The Basin pack may excel at blending in with the mountains, keeping quiet when the horses are near and keeping their fangs out of their foals’’s flesh (though there are no young at the moment, which is also a decent reason for the wolves to hunt elsewhere - easier prey), but their newly born offspring are not quite as disciplined. The young fuzzballs are all about playing with each other, pouncing on anything that moves and establishing dominance amongst their siblings. The high-pitched sounds of yelps, barks, and various other sounds echo across the silent ridges, drawing Wessex in.

The simple fact that she is able to get close enough to see distinct, rambunctious shapes tells her that the pups are not well-guarded. An adult dozes in the sunshine, ears occasionally flicking around at a particularly loud yelp, but otherwise their watcher is unobservant. And she, herbivore that she is, rouses no alarm, despite the fact that her scent has surely wafted towards the babysitter by now. The pups’ minder is in fact, an older sibling who has been left behind while the rest of the pack hunts the high fields for caribou and other larger prey - after all, they have many more mouths to feed right now. Perhaps if their older sibling would open his eyes and look around, he might change his mind about Wessex and herd the tumbling rascals into the den - but he is awfully indignant about being left behind, and so chooses to take a nap instead of taking his job seriously.

Wessex has yet to reveal her newly acquired accessories to any in the herd, studiously avoiding the center and opting to take her much needed Hot Springs soak in the dead of night. Then, she disappears into the mountains to nurse her battle wounds and learn how to move her tail without constantly slashing at her hocks. ‘Cause the first couple of times, it stung like a seriously obnoxious paper cut, and we all know those aren’t fun.

Half-obscured behind a cluster of evergreen trees, the prickly mare watches the wolf pups with a keen, observant eye, trying to keep the group of five straight. Three of them seem to be constantly antagonizing each other, nipping and tugging at various body parts, then lunging at each other and rolling around in the dirt. One naps, following the elder sibling’s example. The last pup, however, is straying from the den, up the mountain, following an invisible, rambling trail to god knows where.

Wandering wolf pup, thy name is trouble.

I am Iron and I Forge Myself