“Blech,” Jackson coughed out, standing over the kill while the others took their turns at it.
“Dinner,” growled Charles, the leader of the wolf pack, and then corrected him with, “Yum, not blech.”
Jackson shook his head and backed away. “Beauty, dear Charles, is in the eye of the beholder. And this, this is not something I care to look at, let alone eat.” He pointed at the blood-drenched carcass and cringed.
“Suit yourself,” Charles said, humming as he sank his razor-sharp canines into what once was a deer that had obviously found itself in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Jackson hunched his shoulders and trotted off, downwind, out of the path of the stench of death. Hungry, despite what he’d just witnessed, he sniffed around until he unearthed a bunch of perfect, orange carrots. “M
