text: She longed to be back under the earth in her burrow, with the she cat, but that wasn't how things had worked out. They had caught the buck's trail, and there was only one way to go. The clouds were heavy, it was getting late, almost true dark, the rain and air growing colder. Song had tried sleeping in a burrow. The white dog had dug the roof off of her, whining and scared to be alone. That was fair. She had tried a lean-to, but the wind was too strong, she froze in her wet woolens. So she compromized with the beast, and built a pit, covered with her poncho. Song huddled with the dog for warmth under her blanket, rifle at her side. Whatever light there might be out in the rain, there was none in this damp, dark hole under the leaking poncho. It smelled of dog and of her sweat. Of earth and old leather and wool. It was cool, if not outright cold. The dog wormed closer. Song cried, and tried to sleep. ... He had gotten lost in the fog before the rain turned heavy. He had been following the brook looking for angelica, but found none. That happened sometimes, where the glaciers had been retreating more quickly, the seeds spread slower uphill. He had walked high to find birch... and then what?...and then seen another stream... had it been to the east or west? He depended on his dogs and Song to know where he was. That wasnt his job. He had crossed a stream, and another, by the time he found angelica and a copse of birch, the temperature had dropped, the rain had grown heavy and a thick fog had rolled down from the slopes above that lead to the base of the glacier. He had no dry wood to make a fire, no idea where he was, and it was getting cold, fast. He tried making a leanto, but he couldnt stay warm by himself, he needed his dogs for that to work. There was only one thing to do. He started digging. Again. ... The tom was awake, looking out the doorway, over the ashes of the fire. He was making a low warning growl. The she-cat was slinking around the side of the door, tail up, claws out, ready to strike if an intruder came. What were they afraid of? Then the bitch smelled it, over the oppressive choking odor of the dying fire. Fox. ... The poncho was waterproof, but it didnt hold heat like the earth she was accustomed to sleeping under. She awoke each time the dog moved or whimpered in its fitful sleep. It was as alien to the beast to sleep without its pack. The sound of the raindrops were like a war drum, tapping out a madly arrhythmic tattoo, too irregular and loud to allow for real rest. She tried to breathe, but the air in the pit under her poncho was oppressively heavy. Stifled, she struggled to her knees, the dog whining in its sleep at this disturbance. The blast of fresh air when she lifted the edge was welcome. The spray of cold water was not. She was now soaked again, and cold. The dog, now awake, whimpered at the intrusion of cold air. With a feeling of utter helplessness, Song sat back down, grabbed the dog to her under the blanket, and cried herself to sleep with her face in its mane. ... He couldn't hear, or smell or see. He was warm and dry in the cocoon he'd made, but he felt cut off from the universe and utterly alone. Cut off from his dogs to guide and protect him, his knowledge was useless. It was safe under the ground when he was alone, but he was never supposed to be alone, and now his pack was wherever he left them, the bitch wounded and all of them scared. This was not how the hunt was meant to be. He mumbled reassurances to his dogs, too far away to hear them, but it was really for himself. Eventually, exhausted from fear of being alone, his voice croaked and lips stopped moving, his muttering giving way to snores. Above the blanket, and poncho, and branches, the rain dropped silently onto the turf. The cold wind howled through the birch on the slopes and the angelica. In the dark grey twilight of the early morning hours, Fir slept warm, if alone, beneath the earth. ... The fox had been incautious, and that had likely lost an eye. To her credit, the bitch had struggled to stand up when she had caught the fox's scent. While the tom wasn't as large as a fox, he wasn't small, and he'd play fought with the dogs when they were pups. He may not have a foxe's jaws but the claws on his long, strong front paws rained a flurry of blows. The fox had not been ready for this strong a defense, and was trying to flee when the she-cat, smaller but twice as fast and every bit as fierce as the tom, was right there in it's face, lashing and tearing. The bitch had barked and tried to bite, weak and half seated, but there was no need. The fox was long gone and would not be back. The air smelled of blood. the cats cleaned themselves, the only blood the fox's. The bitch hobbled outside and pissed in the cold rain. The cats were ferocious. She had no doubt the fox would not return. But if something else came it would know that the bitch guarded this den. She limped back inside. When she'd found her place, facing the door, the cats positioned themselves on either side of her, the tom cleaning the fur around her bandage. The she-cat, alert with eyes closed, pointed her ears intently out the stooped doorway into the cold rain and grey fog. ...