freedog mpegs
Part 1, May:
Christine had always watched the Druid pack, for as long as she could remember. They came every summer with their slowly growing pups to stay where the weather was warm and safe from tourism. It was not that Yellowstone wasn’t a cozy little place for wolves to stay and roam, but the summer months always seemed to attract the couples with squalling children and cameras. The pack was one off the smaller, more reclusive ones in the park, and they didn’t exactly like showing off their young to stranger that made odd and unfamiliar calls. Thus they ventured out of the preserve, into the more dangerous parts of the world, where farmers would shoot to kill for fear of their hens. But Christine’s ranch was a haven for the animals when they wanted peace from the world, as it had been when her father had owned it.
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He had been the one that taught her the wolves’ numbers. The black one with the white streak down the chest was number 265, and the gray with the kink in the tail was 127, and so on until she had memorized the entire pack. She helped him look up in park records what the new pups were numbered, and recorded them in her own diary, so she wouldn’t forget in summers to come. Secretly, in that diary, she gave them true names next to the numbers she wrote. Number 265 became Midnight, and 127 became Majesty. The pups were always given cute names that she came to regret as the animals grew into their paws and ears. They no longer looked like Cupcakes and Snuggles once their muscular and lean legs carried them with a more respectable air. 
Her father had died though some years ago, and the ranch was hers now. At first, she’d been afraid that the wolves would not come without her fathers careful planning and knowledge, but when they arrived that June, she realized she could keep with her father’s customs just fine, as well as adding a few of her own. She stopped looking up their numbers in the Yellowstone directory, and grew wiser about naming them to their personalities. She taught herself when in the year to take the chickens into the barn and keep them there, and how to stay away from the burrows that generations of wolves had used so they wouldn’t smell her and decide to find a new place to sleep. She didn’t tell anyone, but she sometimes waited up at night, unable to sleep, just listening for their call. At those times it was so easy to remember the way they looked running across the dusty grasses of the ranch, tongues rolling out in happy, carefree manners. Christine was never truly happy, until summer came.
They were late this year though. A sudden and unexpected onslaught of thunderstorms and pouring rain had kept them in the park, and kept the tourists out. At least they were happy, she thought to herself as she traced a fingertip down the windowpane. Her warmth left a thin trail of white mist across the glass, and she watched as it dissolved into nothing, as if it had never even been there. The rain spattered out an SOS on the outside of her door, and there was the steady drip as the water that had managed to slip through a loose ceiling tile fell disappointedly into the sink. Other than those steady little beats, the house was silent.
It had been a long time since her father’s mutt Francie had run through the house, baying at the scent of her wild kin outside. She had died some time before her father, but had been very old for a dog, and had lived a good long life. She remembered well the season when her father had desperately tried to lock Francie inside when the wolves came. She had been in heat, and whimpered and howled and scratched at the door, begging to get a chance at Midnight or Charlie. Christine had felt so bad that she had decided to let her out, if just for a little while. She ran straight into their midst, and Christine had watched in fascination as the males stopped growling their warnings and had approached her, sniffing wildly. Francie had braced herself forward, offering herself to the males, whimpering desperately and licking at their muzzles. Christine stood frozen in the doorway, all her muscles tense as a large gray male licked at her hindquarters then leapt up onto her, mounting her swiftly. The male’s mouth opened gently, panting, as his hips thrust forward over and over, while Francie’s body shook in joy. Even at that young age of 18, she’d felt a burning between her legs at witnessing her dog being mounted by one of the Druids. But before the wolf had gotten himself all the way inside her, Christine’s father had run in, shouting, and the wolves had scattered. Francie made a bound to go after them, but yelped as Christine’s father caught her back legs and pulled her into his arms. He’d stormed back to the house, and locked the door behind him. Christine had always regretted not seeing the scene played out in its entirety, and to the end of her days, a pang of jealousy swelled in her throat when she remembered the look on that males face. By now, she’d felt a man's touch and had experienced human love and sex, but nothing was fonder to her than that day. She knew in her heart that no man could possibly as good as a Druid, but denied the thought whenever it came to her.
She reached up to pull down the shudder and stopped, listening intently. Had she heard something? She pressed her ear and cheek to the wet, cool glass and sucked in a breath of the cold air that hung suspended around the pane. After a moment of hearing nothing but the Morse code of raindrops, she heard, very distant, a high, lilting noise. The call was followed by another, lower song. They floated through the glass to her hopeful ears and she closed her eyes, drinking them in with her mind. She felt her lips twitch, then smile gently. A third rose, separate from the rest, and the sounds of the others grew dim in her mind, and all she heard now was the one complex and quivering howl. It sounded so lonely, so longing…she knew just what he was saying. Christine pressed a palm to the window and felt the cold seep into her pours.
It was summer.
(NOTE: I reformatted a little to make reading easier. BTW, I'm open to reccomendation about my new wolf's name! Reccomend, and I just might use it!)
Part 2, June:
Christine shoved the window open with a low grunt. Rain had made the wooden frame swell, and the window groaned as it haltingly slid open. Warm, summer air blasted her hard in the face, smelling of dust and assorted flowers. She smiled gently and breathed it in, tasted all the different colors of summer. She only wished she had the abilities of the Druids, and could smell and recognize every member of the pack by their individual scents.
They had shown up just as the rains had begun to stop. She would look outside in the morning through the mist and see flickers of dark movement amidst the swirling white. Muzzles, flicks of narrow paws and bristling tails. They were like magical creatures turned real, emerging from mists of some fairy world only to sink back in and blend into fantasy again. She watched intently for that simple sign of life out there, that glimmer of hope with wide and desperate eyes. When the mist cleared, they always seemed to be asleep in their burrows, for she never saw them while the rains still decided to fall, on and off. It was frustrating, yet tantalizing somehow.
That day, though, there had been no mist in the morning, and she had decided today was the day to force the window open and watch for them. Now that she had achieved the window part, she began to remember how sweet the air outside tasted in the early summer. It was like drinking nectar from some great yellow flower. Like warm honey. Although she could not smell the wolves, she could feel them somehow. The air was taut, silent. It too was waiting in the apprehension that spelled “Wolves,” and she could feel the tense heaviness in the morning wind. She shaded her eyes against the sun, still low on the horizon, and scanned the sparse brush and red dirt for the fleeting blurs of motion she’d come to know and love. For a moment or two, there was nothing. The air, Christine, the whole ranch seemed to hold its breath. And then…
Majesty. He was more white than grey now, and was one of the oldest wolves she’d ever seen. He had been there when she was eighteen, nearly six years ago, when she stood in the doorway and watched as Francie had mated. The sway in his back and the thinning hairs across the top of his nose spoke to his age, but he still managed to hold his head and tail with a sense of regal dignity. She sucked in a little excited breath and felt her cheeks glow rosy a little, as if she was still a child. Even this small noise was enough to catch the Alpha’s ears, and they swiveled to face the window, followed shortly by his thick square head. He focused on her with a pair of cloudy but still very intelligent eyes, nose twitching as he tried to recognize the scent as wolf or otherwise. He might have remembered her, for he made no move to run. He stood, sturdy, stocky body squared over his legs. He practically shone white-silver in the sunlight. Christine smiled at him gently and raised two fingers a little from the windowsill in a wave.
“Hey boy,” she whispered.
Majesty snuffled loudly and turned away from her with a flick of his age-worn tail. She was none of his concern, and because she was no threat, it would be ok for the others to come out now that the Alpha had scouted out the area. She bit delicately on her lower lip and watched as more forms rose over a mound of dirt. The slender white nose and paws of Tortuk was the second to arrive. Her green eyes were bright and still puppyish, even though she was now firmly an adult, and she nosed at Majesty questioningly, looking for some reassurance from her mate and leader. He turned and gently gripped her muzzle with his mouth. It meant “I’m in charge here,” and Tortuk seemed to relax considerably. She was small and delicate, like a perfect little princess, and her coat was a gleaming snow white. It wasn’t yellow yet like the coats of older white wolves Christine had seen before, and it seemed perfectly groomed, as if she had her own personal stylist. Christine smiled warmly at the small female but made no move to say hello. She was the skittish one of the group, and scaring her would in turn scare away the pups.
The pups were a while in coming though. First came Sierra, a stocky gray female with a stubby bent tail where it had been broken and never healed right came up, head low, to sniff and lick at her queen’s feet and muzzle. Cocoa, a young brown female was close at hand but stayed back a little, fearful of doing something wrong and embarrassing herself. Majesties oldest son, Barley, was a deep steel color, and he hung back on his father’s flank, constantly on guard, some of the playful puppy still in him. His long purple tongue lolled out, giving him an excited and curious expression. He’d always been so adorable, even as a pup.
Now, at last, this seasons pups came into view. A small brown one, just like Cocoa, then a deep steel one just like his older brother. They nipped at each other’s ears, rolled on their backs, and leapt at the adult wolves’ tails. Their squeaky little barks warmed Christine’s heart, and she felt her eyes become damp around the edges. It wasn’t that she wanted a child, now or perhaps ever, but there was nothing quite light puppies. Ears and feet too big for little bodies, droopy little eyes and minute clean white fangs. They were utterly irresistible, no matter who you were. A third, a little white one, sauntered coolly up and sat pristinely at her mother’s side before beginning to lick at her paws like some sort of cat. A new little princess, Christine thought to herself and chuckled. Three pups. It was less than usual, but she was happy to see any at all. The Druids were a dwindling pack, and any offspring counted as hope for the future of the group.
Then, a dark movement caught her eye. Behind the group stood one last wolf. He was lanky, with thin scraggly legs and a tangled mess of fur hung from his neck and sides. His tail seemed tattered and ratty, and didn’t move naturally with the rest of his lean, lank body. One long streak of faded yellow/white went from under his jaw to directly under his belly. One ear was notched, probably from battle, and a patch of black skin on his back haunch showed another angry war scar. His eyes were a deep gold, and they fixed Christine in an intent, calculating stare. She caught her breath as his ragged ears flicked to the front to tremble as he listened for her to make a noise. She stared back into his gaze, transfixed by the intensity of those battle-warn, spiteful eyes. Her mouth opened a little in a small “oh” as he lowered his head and tensed all the muscles down his back.
“Hi…” she managed to breathe silently.
The wolf stared a moment longer, then curled back his lips and rumbling growl drifted across the air to her ears. She blinked, and in that instant he had leapt away, behind the dunes of red dirt and sage. Skittish or just angry, she couldn’t be sure, but she did know that she’d never seen this one before. She stared after him a few minutes thinking hard.
It looked as if she had four names to give this summer…
((Ok, so no name release on our black wolf yet, but be reacy for some serious changes in the next part. I'm sure you'll enjoy it when it comes. Till then, I hope you enjoy this!))
Part 3, July:
They had been here almost a month now, and Christine knew their days together were growing short. The nights were still short, but the deer would soon move away from their lands, as they always did, leaving the Druids without any food. So she watched them for now, admiring the new wolves she had just met, as well as the old friends. The pups, for instance, had grown so much, even in these few weeks, and each had grown their own personalities to match.
The little brown one was growing much faster than the others, and was developing long, lean legs. The fur on the nape of his neck always stood up in spiky little peaks, giving him a rugged, wild little look. The stud, Christine chuckles to herself. He trotted around, head high, thin, but stout nose always catching scents as they passed him on the wind. His energy was obvious, and he broke into fits of joyful bounding every now and again. At the same time, however, he seemed to hold back his true nature, seeming the distant, strong type. More cat than wolf, Christine noted. His name had been fairly easy to pick out. She’d had a boyfriend like that once, with so much energy, but so much composure…plus he too had thought himself “all that.” Frederick, or Freddie, for short, it was.
The grey one was much different than his older brother. Barley was strong, calm, and utterly immovable. He was one of the best hunters in the pack, flawless in speed, style, and composure. Only with him was a kill sure. His little brother, however, was the biggest klutz Christine had ever seen in her entire life. He was always falling over his own feet, yelping as he fell on his face. One of his little ears always stood up straight, while the other lay flat and limp against his skull, the perfect representation of his lopsided personality. He was overly energetic, and shook with joy whenever any pack member showed him the slightest attention, though his brother rarely gave him the time of day. He seemed almost embarrassed that they were blood related. The pup, however, was always so ready to please. He crawled on his belly, licked and the muzzles of his father and mother, and whimpered and barked, trying to win any sort of affection he could manage. Christine had originally wanted to call him Steel, but the name didn’t suit him at all. He was far too much of a clown for such a serious name. Instead, she had settled on the comfortable, but quirky name of Teaspoon, or TS, when he grew up a little perhaps.
The little girl was the easiest. She was demure, small, and snippy. She snapped bitterly at her two brothers, and preferred lounging about rather than frolicking like a normal puppy would do. She always ate before her brothers, and refused any sort of babying her mother or father showed her. She was, in fact, the perfect little princess. She held herself regally; kept her coat spotlessly white…she was downright royal. Marie was the first name she had thought of, and was very true to her personality, after the beheaded French queen. She hoped that this pup would not end up the same way as her namesake.
Even with these new names, Christine felt an empty spot in her heart. While every other wolf had fallen into the pack, the black, loner male was snapped at and picked on by the rest. In the hunt, he always came back bloodies, and she wasn’t sure why, and he was always the last to eat, so his ribs showed through his coat. He kept his head low, growled at the pups, and hated to show and reverence to majesty. He was a rogue, and had an obvious problem with authority. And despite all these obvious unique personality traits, she had yet to find a good name for him. Today, she watched out the window as he lay atop a mound of dirt. The others ha gone out for the hunt, while he had remained behind. She wasn’t sure why exactly they had left him here…they had even taken the pups, for training she supposed. He lay, head resting numbly between his massive, dark-clawed paws, his liquid amber eyes only half open. He seemed elsewhere, as if he wasn’t really aware of the world around him. He didn’t even seem to realize that the pack was not around. Christine leaned her elbow on the windowsill and stared at the wolf, curious and fascinated by his blank expression. What was going on between those torn, tired ears? What did he think, what did he feel? If only he could speak, the questions she would ask him. 
Far away, a wolf, probably Majesty, howled out a message. The black wolf’s ears propped up suddenly on his head, and his muzzle jerked up from the ground. He pushed himself tiredly up to a sitting position and stared fixedly to some mystical point in the night’s sky. Christine looked there as well, but failed to see what the wolf was staring so intently at. Then, without warning, he jerked back his head, and let out one, short, curt, howl. It was more a bark than a real howl, but its sound split the night like some sort of knife, and made Christine jump. Then, as he listened and no answer came, he slowly tipped his nose skyward and let a long, quavering howl float like a melody into the darkness. It was varied, so complex…and familiar. The third howl. Christine nodded, yes, it had to be. The loneliness was there, just as it had been a month ago, and it inspired that same familiarity it had before. She almost wanted to answer it, and felt a howl of her own swell in her throat. Involuntarily, a soft, low whistling imitation left her. The black wolf turned sharply to stare at her, as if saying, “what’s this?” She blushed deeply, and turned away from the questioning expression in the wolf’s eyes.
“Sorry…” She muttered. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
The wolf stared at her a moment longer before re-focusing on that invisible point in the night and launching another song towards the stars.
Majesty returned after some time had passed. He had no meat with him, nor did any of the other wolves. The pups whimpered, but found there was no food for them tonight, and soon quieted, and went to their den for sleep. Christine watched this with a heavy heart. It was true…the deer were leaving. Soon the wolves would leave as well. She turned her attention back to the black wolf. He was lying down again, and he blended so perfectly with the night, only his slitted, gold eyes were visible in the darkness. He looked so empty, so lost to the rest of this giant world. She slowly nodded at his lonely figure. She’d get a name for him before they left…It was the least she could do for him.