One reason the pack had hated for Tinker to hunt with them was because of her black fur. The ground was dusted with white and sleet which make her form stand out in dark relief against the landscape. She had learned quite young to be deathly quiet for it was the only way to sneak up on prey. One broken twig, one crunch of a dried leaf would alert them to a presence. Other wolves might create a noise but with their dun coloring blended in. Tinker on the other hand was as evident as if she were standing on her hind legs cavorting in joy.<br/><br/>Following Warren, she slunk along nearly on her stomach, but carefully placing her paws so as not to dislodge a stone or a clod of dirt. She had also learned to travel close to the gloaming woods so that is she was spotted, that she would appear to be the shadow of a tree trunk. Now these lessons served her well, for Tinker was afraid that if she made a disaster of this hunt that Warren might abandon her in the night.<br/><br/>“The little doe there on the side closest to you,” he reminded her in pack speak. Tinker didn’t take her eyes from the quarry but held her breath to make herself even stiller. The wind was blowing the deer’s scent to her and hers away from it and Tinker was glad that Warren knew these matters so well. Lifting one paw, holding it, moving forward just a fraction of an inch at a time, Tinker was quivering inside as she waited for Warren’s signal to pounce.<br/><br/>The deer were restless, holding their heads up, large ears swiveling, noses working, trying to ascertain the safety of their feeding grounds. When Warren sprang, so did Tinker. With a single bound, she found herself nipping on the doe’s heels, the way she always joined in the hunting. But she remembered that Warren was trusting her to take this kill, not just aid in bagging it. The deer leaped toward the woods but Tinker was quick. She lunged for the tender underbelly, eviscerating the deer.<br/><br/>Blood gushed out as long loops of white intestines tangled Tinker’s body. Her teeth had gained purchase and she held on, with eyes shut tight. Scrambling with her back paws, her claws offered little help, but she used what she had, tooth and claw until the deer ran into the trunk of a tree and lay trembling. The deer wasn’t dead but it wasn’t going any place either. Tinker’s muzzle was bloody and the hot blood was delicious. Remembering her father talking about the importance of a clean kill, Tinker stood over her unfinished business, considering exactly what to do next. She recalled seeing her father rip out the throat of some carcass and how the animal had stopped moving immediately. Tinker stood, sides heaving and considered the doe whose large brown eyes were frantically looking around as if for a savior. Tinker backed up and dove for the neck, her perfect white canines mercifully ending the battle.<br/><br/>She looked around, not seeing Warren but feeling immensely proud of herself. Tinker walked around the downed deer and finally hit on the idea of a little celebration. She lifted her head and howled.