The night came, but Montrose did not sleep.
Instead, he sat at the edge of the den, staring outward into the dimly lit world. Traces of the moon's silver wrapped around the fields, catching in the low-hanging mist. And Montrose would allow his senses the moment to unravel, his nose sniffing and his eyes hazy and heavy with the lack of sleep. A sleep he denied himself.
Despite the heft of his eyelids, he could not sleep.
Something about the soft pitter-patter of the rain ... something about the glow of the moon ... something ... something ... kept him wide-eyed and alert. Well, at least half alert. The boy stifled a yawn, lips stretching wide. And then he frowned.
A sigh would drag from his lips, potent and heavy as he lifted his little body and stretched his front legs. His rump waved in the air, but it was not the flag of play. Not today. Today, Montrose was cranky.
And the low rumble of thunder in the distance seemed to agree.
