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Plush pelt placed under his chin, Rancor laid his head down with some pressure. It took some of the literal weight off of his shoulders, expressed with a tired sigh. Very. He had not fully slept in days. How could he, out on the open ocean? He’d get eaten by a shark, or an orca, or anything else. The longer he stayed idle, the more he could feel the burn and sting in each leg. It almost hurt.

Almost.

Ears perked though his eyes stayed closed, listening to his companion while he responded to his important question. Yes, the zombie, which he had never seen or smelled or heard of despite living on Ferinine for a year or so. A curt laugh forced its way out of his ribs, streamline jaws parting. So you let your packmate die. What a disgrace. Not even a she-wolf would let that happen; at the very least, she’d ought to grab her male packmates to save the other.

He’d never thought highly of those that let thin-pawed creatures place collars on their necks, though. They had been around to document his pack once or twice when he was younger, and they’d always avoid the water during that time. Bad, smelly things they rode. Mojave was a disgrace to let them near his ample, soft coat.

In any case, HE seemed not to get that memo. Don’t you remember how he was always there? The black white wolf moved his head somewhat to nestle his chin deeper into cooling fur. Always having to poke and prod and ask what we were up to. In fact, wasn’t it HIM who told you about your collar? His head now lifted some, face scrunching in annoyance at the red thing. Snapping at it, Rancor added, Of course I don’t miss him! I’m just waiting for him to come out of the woodwork, all “I told you so, fish-boy!” His mocking tone could not have been farther from that wolf’s voice.