The wilderness had not been kind to someone used to stealing extra eggs or cows milk from the farmer. Used to getting scraps after butcher day.
She’d been a good dog, she’d done her best on the farm and now it was nothing short of a cold memory. Her paws pressed forward, worn and cracked. Dried out by the cold.
Her shoulders and hips ached to stop wondering.
She’d been in the cold for a year, had learned to hunt well enough that she was still alive. However she was not wild, she had learned that quickly.
She was no wolf. She was a dog, a pet.
She hesitated to kill, hesitated to chase because she’d been drilled for it to be bad.
Her whole life had taught her everything about what she was doing to be bad.
She was a bad dog.

She trudged forward, nose to the ground. Her tongue lolled out the side of her mouth, short pants leaving her lungs as she grew tired.
She paused, taking note of the much larger pawprints. Almost triple the size of her own. She’d met a wolf once, had avoided any others after that experience.
He’d been in awe of her, a pet. He’d been content to have her as that, his pet. His property. Had taught her about the wild, that wolves craved to own things and that dogs needed owners.

However, the scent gave away this was not a male. She stepped forward, hesitantly following the path.