Lockjaw + The Chaser

Warmth. Comfort. Safety.
His first memories were deep in the deciduous forest, snuggled among his mewling siblings and wedged into the crook of his mother's flank. Lockjaw's parents were a close pair-- each some time ago had decided to venture out from the security of their birth packs to begin anew the cycle of life. They hunted by night, quick as thieves in the undergrowth, and by day rested beneath warm spattering of sunlight with gorged bellies. Their young soon followed, learning first to eat regurgitated meals and then to growl and whine among themselves, and eventually to follow along on hunts. It wasn't long before the pups were taking down prey of their own. Grouse, rabbits, weasels-- the forest was bountiful. Stalk, kill, eat, rest, play, and again. These were the virtues by which they lived.

A day came when the family followed their mother to hunt. Dusk had just waned; the ashy sky silhouetted her strong and nimble body along the crest of a hill. For her signal, they waited below. Then came a terrible crack-- something louder than thunder, and more violent than lightning. She fell as she never had before, sudden and carelessly. Lockjaw was the last of his siblings to scatter, instead he watched his father mount the hill and then a surprised hunter. They wrestled fiercely, until another crack erupted and shattered the blanketing tranquility of the night sky. Lockjaw raced to rejoin his siblings, corralling them and driving the group downhill. The hunters seemed to appear from every quiet nook of the forest, frenzied and wild as the wolves themselves. This way! Lockjaw herded. Another splitting crack. Watch the trees! Crack. Hurry now! Crack.
Very suddenly, he became aware that he was alone in this newly terrifying world as he had never been before. He did not spare a backward glance, but instead tore down the hill side and toward the rushing river below. His burning limbs and heaving lungs carried him far from the echoing cracks, but not out of the hunter's range.
Another crack, another thunderous boom, another strike of terrible lightning. There was a searing pain skipping along the crest of his rump and down the length of his hind leg, so agonizingly powerful that the solid earth beneath him slipped loose from his grip and he was plunged into the shocking cold of the river currents.

Warmth. Comfort. Safety. Gone now.

It was hours before he could bring himself to his feet and shake loose his waterlogged fur. Days until he could find the strength to hunt once again, and even more until he learned to do so successfully without the help of other gnashing maws and prowling bodies. Months more before the terrible depression of isolation outweighed the crushing grief.

Lockjaw will never forget his past, but he chooses to remember the mewling of his siblings and the nightly hunts of weasel and grouse with his parents. He hopes one day to have young of his own, to protect and teach and eventually hunt beside. As he quests to find company in another pack, he reminds himself frequently: Never again will he go so quietly, like a hare being hunting. Next time, he will be the hunter. The cold river had graced him with the second chance to do so.