Ko-Ga groomed Nate-Dog while he wept. An ugly, wracking thing. His perennial companion picked through fur for stickers and twigs and bugs, while the waves of strife worked themselves out.

Stubborn, stupid dogs! But Ko-Ga loved Nate-Dog for the fact that Nate-Dog loved. And mourning — well, it was part of loving. 

Though the crow had never taken a mate, he felt he understood. It was written in the hollows of his bones, his kind made their bonds for life. Elders talked of following lovers through lifetimes, to find each other again, and again! Birds knew of such things.

Eleanore was Nate's mate. It did not matter if Ko-Ga approved, because Nate had chosen her and she had chosen him, and there had been talk between them of building a nest.

She hadn't followed Nate-Dog, because he was taken before his time. He was reborn, because it was not his time! And Ko-Ga puzzled seriously over the pain his friend exposed.

What if Nate-Dog moved on, and someday Eleanore appeared? The jealousy! The shame!

What if he didn't, and denied himself the comfort of a new mate all his days? The loneliness! The sorrow!

And if he loved again, who could promise he would not lose them, too?

But Nate-Dog felt now all these things at once, before any of them had happened. As if they were all happening now, together. He would hang himself on hope and call the perversion justice. Maybe he even thought the men who'd killed him had some genuine right.

Nate-Dog was not a bird. He did not inherit the instincts of a winged-thing, and the marrow of wisdom was only earned for men and wolves through breaking of bones. When his heart bled, he could hear nothing except that frantic beating.

So Ko-Ga did not believe Nate-Dog would understand these observations, or that pecking at him would do any good. Even if Ko-Ga very much wanted to peck him.

Not selfish. The crow appraised with a simple shrug, hopping down to the riverside to look for tasty treats hidden in the shallows. Nate-Dog still have Ko-Ga, either way.