HOME | DD

Description

The black and tan coonhound stood motionless by the shoreline. The waves crashed against his legs, salty, cold water soaking his coat. Still, he stood motionless as the sound of the raging waves was all that filled his ears. He had come out here to get his mind straight, however, the coonhound didn’t know where to begin. His pack life had just been flipped upside down; its warm, open belly out in the open, just ready for the cold searing teeth of betrayal to sink into the soft flesh, ripping out everything the Vry had stood for.

Jethro wanted to act ignorant, like he didn’t see this coming, but that wasn’t the case. The tension between the former lead hunter and the Alpha was tangible and filled every space and crevasse of the pack. While he knew something was going to happen, it was surprising to see how everything played out as it did. The coonie still remembered, sitting on the damp cold floor of the sewers watching everything go down. And after the blood was shed and his Alpha laid pitifully on the floor, Geronimo gave his spiel. He glanced between all of his packmates, some he grew to know and like, and he watched in disbelief as some of them stood to follow the ghostly dog out of their once home. In the moment, he couldn’t believe it! How could some of them just get up and walk away… not even giving the idea a second thought. To be honest, at the moment Jethro didn’t know what he wanted to do either. The coonhound really just stood in shock until half of his pack was gone, and even if he wanted to leave then, it would have been awkward and out of place. So, he simply stayed, under the rule of Koa, and beside the few friends he had left.

The damage done to the pack was irreversible, they had lost half of their hunters, and now Jethro was under the assumption that everyone was looking at him, the poor subbie to pull the weight of the pack next to Wendigo. But could he? He wasn’t shabby at hunting, but definitely wasn’t great. Yes, he could track, but when it came to taking down prey, he was useless. His heart always was set on trading, and it always would be. He liked the pack life and all, but he missed the streets and the act of striking up a deal. That was just a part of his past he couldn’t let ago. But again, so was hunting. He was born and raised to do exactly just that, but his satisfactory work haunted him, and to think how disappointed his passed siblings would be of his shoddy work always had its place in the back of his head.

Swallowing hard, the coonhound looked out across the sea, hoping something in the fading horizon would tell him what to do. Should he talk to Koa? Or should he just stay put and work on his hunting skills? What if he didn’t do either and just pitifully sat around camp, doing nothing, until someone made up his mind for him? Padding around in the tide Jethro faced back towards the sewers. They smelled like shit, and were nasty 90% of the time, but they were his home. So, he walked, back across the sand; back home.

---
I honestly had fun writing this! I love my sweet Jethro and although I haven't been as active as I should have been these last couple of months, I definitely missed brainstorming of what kind of antics this coonie would get himself into.

Characters listed in order of mention:

Geromino belongs to drazzonic
Koa belongs to FrostedCow
Wendigo belongs to KingKinu
Jethro's past siblings: me!

Description

The black and tan coonhound stood motionless by the shoreline. The waves crashed against his legs, salty, cold water soaking his coat. Still, he stood motionless as the sound of the raging waves was all that filled his ears. He had come out here to get his mind straight, however, the coonhound didn’t know where to begin. His pack life had just been flipped upside down; its warm, open belly out in the open, just ready for the cold searing teeth of betrayal to sink into the soft flesh, ripping out everything the Vry had stood for.

Jethro wanted to act ignorant, like he didn’t see this coming, but that wasn’t the case. The tension between the former lead hunter and the Alpha was tangible and filled every space and crevasse of the pack. While he knew something was going to happen, it was surprising to see how everything played out as it did. The coonie still remembered, sitting on the damp cold floor of the sewers watching everything go down. And after the blood was shed and his Alpha laid pitifully on the floor, Geronimo gave his spiel. He glanced between all of his packmates, some he grew to know and like, and he watched in disbelief as some of them stood to follow the ghostly dog out of their once home. In the moment, he couldn’t believe it! How could some of them just get up and walk away… not even giving the idea a second thought. To be honest, at the moment Jethro didn’t know what he wanted to do either. The coonhound really just stood in shock until half of his pack was gone, and even if he wanted to leave then, it would have been awkward and out of place. So, he simply stayed, under the rule of Koa, and beside the few friends he had left.

The damage done to the pack was irreversible, they had lost half of their hunters, and now Jethro was under the assumption that everyone was looking at him, the poor subbie to pull the weight of the pack next to Wendigo. But could he? He wasn’t shabby at hunting, but definitely wasn’t great. Yes, he could track, but when it came to taking down prey, he was useless. His heart always was set on trading, and it always would be. He liked the pack life and all, but he missed the streets and the act of striking up a deal. That was just a part of his past he couldn’t let ago. But again, so was hunting. He was born and raised to do exactly just that, but his satisfactory work haunted him, and to think how disappointed his passed siblings would be of his shoddy work always had its place in the back of his head.

Swallowing hard, the coonhound looked out across the sea, hoping something in the fading horizon would tell him what to do. Should he talk to Koa? Or should he just stay put and work on his hunting skills? What if he didn’t do either and just pitifully sat around camp, doing nothing, until someone made up his mind for him? Padding around in the tide Jethro faced back towards the sewers. They smelled like shit, and were nasty 90% of the time, but they were his home. So, he walked, back across the sand; back home.

---
I honestly had fun writing this! I love my sweet Jethro and although I haven't been as active as I should have been these last couple of months, I definitely missed brainstorming of what kind of antics this coonie would get himself into.

Characters listed in order of mention:

Geromino belongs to drazzonic
Koa belongs to FrostedCow
Wendigo belongs to KingKinu
Jethro's past siblings: me!