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Description

Crimson stains remained on his fur even hours after his last fight. It had been two days since he’d been fed any decent source of meal, so in desperate hope that it would provide some type of relief, Denali began to lick himself, his tongue washing away the blood which matted his chest fur and paws, resulting in a faint pink color on his body once he’d cleaned most of it off. The thought of the blood once belonging to the poor dog he had mauled only hours before made him sick, but he was starving. Anything was enough to keep his sanity in check. His stomach cramped severely, and he often paced the cage. He had been moved to this new pen some weeks ago, but still he found the hard, concrete floor difficult on his paws. It was too hard, not natural. This fence that separated him from free air, it confined him, caused him to feel claustrophobic. Every time a human passed the cage, often staring at him in some kind of strange awe, he growled, wishing that he could communicate to them in a way that they could understand. “Let me out” he often wanted to say. “Freedom. I can’t breathe.”

He found, though, that was impossible. Never could they understand. One glance at him, a large brute, vicious-looking with fresh blood staining his body, and they saw only a mindless dog waiting to sink his teeth into his next victim. It was the same thing every day. He didn’t know why he kept trying.

“Hey, kid,” a voice shattered the silence. Denali had been listening to the sound of his own worn claws against the concrete, his eyes wide and his mouth still tingling with the taste of blood. He looked up to direct his attention towards the pen across the hall from him. It belonged to a shaggy-looking dog, a blackish dog with hair that hung almost to the floor. He had strong jaws, according to human gossip, and all that hair kept that dog from receiving serious damage during fights.

“All that pacing you’re doin’,” the dog continued, pausing almost after every word as if it had been so long since he’d spoken that he had to remember his vocabulary, “it’s not good.”

“Ah, put a muzzle on it, you flea-bitten mop.” Denali growled, not abruptly. It was a slow comment, one out of simple irritation. He had been stuck with this male in this part of the hallway ever since he moved pens, and all that shaggy mutt wanted to do was be Captain Obvious, mention every little thing he thought of, things that got on Denali’s nerve.

Denali caught sight of his owner. He looked back from his pacing, torn ears perked. His owner was a tall, lanky man, with large thick clothes that appeared too large for his small frame, and a bony face that blew out strange-smelling smoke whenever he stuck that thin white thing between his lips. Brett, the man was called. Cooper, he called Denali. Denali had grown so used to his new name that he sometimes forgot his true one. His owner, this time, wasn’t alone. He was with another male who was more nicely dressed and better built, and instead of holding a cheap cigarette he puffed on cheap pipe. When the two stopped at the pen in front of Denali, Brett was rambling on about the wolfdog, seemingly boasting on about his fine fighter.

“He’s strong, a killer. He nearly tor the throat of that pit earlier this morning, I tell ya.” Brett was saying, but the older, healthier man didn’t seem to listen. He was just staring intently at Denali, eyes flickering across the wolfdog’s body. For a moment, he seemed impressed by the sheer size of the canine.

“Here, I’ll show you how mean he is.” Brett said, and he took the metal rod in his hand and in a swift motion, he gave the metal pen a loud whack, sending a rattling sound shivering into the dog. Denali reacted to the irritating, and even hurtful sound by baring his teeth and snarling, hoping that the human would leave him be now that he had his point across.

“Hmm…” the healthier man mused, scratching at his chin before shrugging. “A’yight. We’ll put him with a bait and I’ll see for myself. I’m not putting my prized dog in the pin with him without knowing how this one plays.”

“Just a bait?” Brett blurted, disappointed that he wouldn’t be getting his money’s worth today. “Ah, alright. I’ll tell Joe to… uh… FETCH a little dog.” At his own weak pun, Brett cackled and slapped his companion on the back, earning an irritated glare from the older man before he brushed his shoulder off.

“Make it fast.”

Less than an hour later, Brett’s assistant had roped Denali in a chain attached to some long pole. He was too afraid to put Denali on a normal leash like some of the other dogs, since he knew god and well that he was a wolf. Denali, of course, never made attempts to lunge at a human, and actually walked calmly beside the assistant, Joe. He was happier to be away from that shaggy dog, and found relief in the short-lived silence during the walk from his pen to the pit. There were several other men at the pit, gamblers, but with no money this afternoon to bet. There was no worth in betting on a bait dog. Joe shoved Denali into the pit, shutting the door behind the dog before disappearing to grab a random dog for bait. The men stood above Denali, and Denali was practically in a hole in the ground, a few feet deep, steep enough that he just barely could jump out if he had the chance and strength.

“Wait ‘till ya see this, champ!” Brett said, shaking in anxiety and excitement, wanting very much to impress his visitor, who was apparently a rich gambler. This man studied Denali the hardest. “He’s a real killer! He’ll tear this dog apart like… like… like s-some kind o-of stuffed animal!”

“I’ll be the judge of this ‘killer.’” The man took another puff of his pipe, blinking slowly at the dog below.

Denali stared right back, almost glaring, though the human couldn’t see such an expression unless teeth showed. The wolfdog heard the sound of a gate opening and he turned with a short growl, fur bristling in anticipation, yet he knew exactly what was about to happen. This even occurred every few weeks. High gamblers with expensive dogs would come to see him, judge him, and to see his true nature Joe would throw in some frightened mutt with either some disorder or was too docile to be trained to fight. These dogs, depending, sometimes had their muzzles taped shut. Cruel and disgusting, yet Denali found that the only way for him to survive, and to avoid a beating, was for him to accommodate to their wishes and practically kill the pitiful dog in some of the most violent and ferocious ways as possible. The violence was all for show, though. He could easily kill a dog if it couldn’t fight back in a matter of seconds.

Something seemed wrong, though. This time, instead of carelessly and instantly tossing in some random dog as usual, Joe seemed to hesitate at the gate. He held something within his arms. A Chihuahua. Denali assumed dully to himself. The smaller the dog, the faster he could get this event over with. Joe finally opened the door, and he tossed the bundle of fur into the ring, and a small squeal filled the air sharply.

Denali’s now predatory eyes locked onto the body, and for a second, out of instinct, he took a step to approach opportunity to kill. But then, when the small dog lifted its head to examine its surroundings and met his gaze, he halted, ears perked and his paw still in air. His tail hung at his legs, and for some peculiar reason, Denali couldn’t move. It was a puppy. A small, cream-colored Cocker Spaniel mix puppy with reddish-colored long curly ears and tail, paws, and splotches over his eyes and muzzle. It didn’t even look seven weeks old yet. It was the innocence that stopped Denali in his tracks. He was used to older dogs with fight in them, ones with reason to tape the mouths shut. Ones with enough sense to run for their life, ones to understand the danger they were in. This pup did seem afraid, yet it stared at him with such confusion that the wolfdog knew that the kid understood nothing of its situation. The pup’s great big, brown eyes shined with fear and youth.

I… I can’t kill this thing… Denali hesitated, feeling the hard gaze of the humans above him. Kill the pup now, and his own life would be saved and he would receive no beating. Don’t, and the pup would either be killed, or used in another dog’s baiting day, and he would be whipped to the point of crippled. He had been raised to kill, yet not once had he ever been introduced to a pup.

“W-Who are you?” it was the pup’s voice, soft, quiet, afraid. He took in the enormous wolfdog in front of him, towering over him, stained with blood which the pup did not understand had come from. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

Damn… Denali’s ears twitched. He heard his owner bang the metal wiring along the inside of pit, creating noise to aggravate the male. Denali’s teeth showed, slightly, and he stared down at the pup with a hesitant expression. He stood for another minute, and finally he spoke, an idea coming to him, despite the sheer dread and regret missing within him.

“Sleep.”

The pup sunk his head when Denali approached him, his teeth snarling at the tiny pup in aggression. Each step the male took, the pup sunk lower and lower to the dirt ground, whimpering softly. “I don’t understand…”

“Pretend you are sleeping.” Denali snapped, snarling loudly, causing the pup to scream in fright before the tiny puppy almost slammed its head against the dirt, and just at that time, Denali lunged. He wrapped his large jaws around the pup’s neck, and squeezed. The last sound from the pup was a high-pitched wail.

From above, the men watched in awe. Every muscle, what muscle the animal had, showed with each movement, a powerful creature with the instinct to kill. It was an astonishing sight, a tremendous display of sheer power. This large wolf had seemed to study his prey before he struck, intimidating and fierce, and the high gambler wondered that, from the way the wolf had so quickly ended the pup’s life, that it may be a bad idea to set his own dog in the pit with this one. The wolf had not let go of the puppy, and he could still hear obvious growling from the monster as he pinned the pup to the ground. Nothing was heard from the pup after the wolf’s jaws closed upon it. It had been a swift death. Brett was cackling loudly next to the calm man, and was rambling about how he “told him so”, regarding the fierceness of the wolf. Finally, the high gambler hummed and motioned for his gang their leave. He followed them. Brett panicked, and he looked to Joe, who was standing at the edge of the pit, readying the noose to attempt to take the dead puppy away from Denali. When he reached in to grab the pup, Denali growled menacingly.

“Leave it! He ain’t been fed since the other day.” With that, he hurried off to catch up to the high gambler and his group, aiming to find a decision on the upcoming fight.

Joe stared at Brett before the strange man disappeared, and then he looked to Denali. Denali was holding the pup now, faint blood staining the pup’s fur, gripped within the older male’s jaws. It was a pitiful sight, the pup dangling lifelessly. Such a shame how he had to put up with these sad situations almost every day. Dogs dying, killing, betting, it was all the same thing every day. So, with a heavy sigh, he released Denali, knowing that the wolfdog would not release his new kill from his jaws, and that he knew where to go to return to his pen. Strangely, the dog knew exactly how to return to his pen, but this made Joe’s job easier.

The gate opened, and Denali took off quickly. He almost ran full sprint down the long, narrow hallway until he reached his pen. He slid and trotted into the pen, curling up in the far corner with his back to the door. Joe reached the pen, closed the door, and after a long, hard stare, he left.

Denali released the pup’s body, the pup falling limply onto the concrete floor. He stared long, sorrowfully. He felt regret tying his gut in knots and his fur began to bristle. The pup was motionless, still. Its little eyes were closed. It was so small, had such a long life to live. To have ended up in this place was only a hell for the little thing. Death was what would have been best for the pitiful youngster.

Yet…

“Get up.”

The pup reawakened. He lifted his head and rolled onto his paws, shaking his body. He opened his eyes and looked to Denali with utter confusion. Denali spoke.

“Alright, here’s the deal. I’m going to regret this here after a while. I don’t know if you’ll make it.”

“DON’T tell me you’ve done gone and brought back a LIVE bait?!” It was the shaggy dog across the hall with his paused speech. He was standing at the edge of the fence, peering over into Denali’s pen.

Denali showed every tooth in his head. “Sit your ass down and keep your muzzle shut, you damned shag!” The dog sat down, saying nothing more. He then turned his attention to the rather frightened pup, having flinched noticeably at the male’s tone. Denali blinked, looking away for some moments before sighing.

“What do you mean?” the pup asked quietly.

“Hmm?”

“You said that I won’t ‘make it’…” the pup clarified his meaning, and he lifted his head. “What does that mean?

Denali wasn’t sure how or if he could explain his meaning to the kid. He sighed, and he shook his head, laying his chin against his paws. “Just keep low, out of sight, and shut up. I don’t want to hear a word out of you for as long as you remain here.”

The pup gasped at the abruptness of his words, but did as commanded and he curled up, right up against the wolfdog’s side. So tiny. He held his paws under his small body, and even though Denali disliked the closeness (he was used to being alone), he made no attempt to shove the pup away. He only remained still, allowing the pup to rest. He didn’t know how much longer it would be before he would have to leave the pen to go to another fight, and he didn’t know what exactly would happen if Joe discovered the pup still alive, and in his pen at that. He felt his stomach tie itself into knots over and over again. Why did he do it? He wasn’t even sure. He just… did it. On an impulse.

Or maybe it was because he saw himself whenever he looked at this pup.

……………………………………………………………………………….

Here, as the story goes, Denali was supposed to kill off the pup to show off how strong and menacing he was. What the humans didn’t know was that he couldn’t find the heart to end the pup’s life, and instead he convinced the pup to play dead while he figured out a way to get to get the pup out of there. In the image, is when Denali had just finished “killing” the puppy, and was holding it, growing at Joe to keep him from taking away the puppy.

I’m not going to make a drawing for this scene, but it is RIGHT after this (literally the next day) that law officials step in and take the dogs into custody and arrest the drug addict (aka Grett) and arrest Joe (who is rather relieved that the dogs are being released from fighting, he was only in it because Grett is his brother). They find Denali and tranquilize him while he is sleeping (under supervision and recommendation) and take the little puppy to put up for rehab and adoption, along with the many other dogs in the kennels.

Art and characters by me.

Description

Crimson stains remained on his fur even hours after his last fight. It had been two days since he’d been fed any decent source of meal, so in desperate hope that it would provide some type of relief, Denali began to lick himself, his tongue washing away the blood which matted his chest fur and paws, resulting in a faint pink color on his body once he’d cleaned most of it off. The thought of the blood once belonging to the poor dog he had mauled only hours before made him sick, but he was starving. Anything was enough to keep his sanity in check. His stomach cramped severely, and he often paced the cage. He had been moved to this new pen some weeks ago, but still he found the hard, concrete floor difficult on his paws. It was too hard, not natural. This fence that separated him from free air, it confined him, caused him to feel claustrophobic. Every time a human passed the cage, often staring at him in some kind of strange awe, he growled, wishing that he could communicate to them in a way that they could understand. “Let me out” he often wanted to say. “Freedom. I can’t breathe.”

He found, though, that was impossible. Never could they understand. One glance at him, a large brute, vicious-looking with fresh blood staining his body, and they saw only a mindless dog waiting to sink his teeth into his next victim. It was the same thing every day. He didn’t know why he kept trying.

“Hey, kid,” a voice shattered the silence. Denali had been listening to the sound of his own worn claws against the concrete, his eyes wide and his mouth still tingling with the taste of blood. He looked up to direct his attention towards the pen across the hall from him. It belonged to a shaggy-looking dog, a blackish dog with hair that hung almost to the floor. He had strong jaws, according to human gossip, and all that hair kept that dog from receiving serious damage during fights.

“All that pacing you’re doin’,” the dog continued, pausing almost after every word as if it had been so long since he’d spoken that he had to remember his vocabulary, “it’s not good.”

“Ah, put a muzzle on it, you flea-bitten mop.” Denali growled, not abruptly. It was a slow comment, one out of simple irritation. He had been stuck with this male in this part of the hallway ever since he moved pens, and all that shaggy mutt wanted to do was be Captain Obvious, mention every little thing he thought of, things that got on Denali’s nerve.

Denali caught sight of his owner. He looked back from his pacing, torn ears perked. His owner was a tall, lanky man, with large thick clothes that appeared too large for his small frame, and a bony face that blew out strange-smelling smoke whenever he stuck that thin white thing between his lips. Brett, the man was called. Cooper, he called Denali. Denali had grown so used to his new name that he sometimes forgot his true one. His owner, this time, wasn’t alone. He was with another male who was more nicely dressed and better built, and instead of holding a cheap cigarette he puffed on cheap pipe. When the two stopped at the pen in front of Denali, Brett was rambling on about the wolfdog, seemingly boasting on about his fine fighter.

“He’s strong, a killer. He nearly tor the throat of that pit earlier this morning, I tell ya.” Brett was saying, but the older, healthier man didn’t seem to listen. He was just staring intently at Denali, eyes flickering across the wolfdog’s body. For a moment, he seemed impressed by the sheer size of the canine.

“Here, I’ll show you how mean he is.” Brett said, and he took the metal rod in his hand and in a swift motion, he gave the metal pen a loud whack, sending a rattling sound shivering into the dog. Denali reacted to the irritating, and even hurtful sound by baring his teeth and snarling, hoping that the human would leave him be now that he had his point across.

“Hmm…” the healthier man mused, scratching at his chin before shrugging. “A’yight. We’ll put him with a bait and I’ll see for myself. I’m not putting my prized dog in the pin with him without knowing how this one plays.”

“Just a bait?” Brett blurted, disappointed that he wouldn’t be getting his money’s worth today. “Ah, alright. I’ll tell Joe to… uh… FETCH a little dog.” At his own weak pun, Brett cackled and slapped his companion on the back, earning an irritated glare from the older man before he brushed his shoulder off.

“Make it fast.”

Less than an hour later, Brett’s assistant had roped Denali in a chain attached to some long pole. He was too afraid to put Denali on a normal leash like some of the other dogs, since he knew god and well that he was a wolf. Denali, of course, never made attempts to lunge at a human, and actually walked calmly beside the assistant, Joe. He was happier to be away from that shaggy dog, and found relief in the short-lived silence during the walk from his pen to the pit. There were several other men at the pit, gamblers, but with no money this afternoon to bet. There was no worth in betting on a bait dog. Joe shoved Denali into the pit, shutting the door behind the dog before disappearing to grab a random dog for bait. The men stood above Denali, and Denali was practically in a hole in the ground, a few feet deep, steep enough that he just barely could jump out if he had the chance and strength.

“Wait ‘till ya see this, champ!” Brett said, shaking in anxiety and excitement, wanting very much to impress his visitor, who was apparently a rich gambler. This man studied Denali the hardest. “He’s a real killer! He’ll tear this dog apart like… like… like s-some kind o-of stuffed animal!”

“I’ll be the judge of this ‘killer.’” The man took another puff of his pipe, blinking slowly at the dog below.

Denali stared right back, almost glaring, though the human couldn’t see such an expression unless teeth showed. The wolfdog heard the sound of a gate opening and he turned with a short growl, fur bristling in anticipation, yet he knew exactly what was about to happen. This even occurred every few weeks. High gamblers with expensive dogs would come to see him, judge him, and to see his true nature Joe would throw in some frightened mutt with either some disorder or was too docile to be trained to fight. These dogs, depending, sometimes had their muzzles taped shut. Cruel and disgusting, yet Denali found that the only way for him to survive, and to avoid a beating, was for him to accommodate to their wishes and practically kill the pitiful dog in some of the most violent and ferocious ways as possible. The violence was all for show, though. He could easily kill a dog if it couldn’t fight back in a matter of seconds.

Something seemed wrong, though. This time, instead of carelessly and instantly tossing in some random dog as usual, Joe seemed to hesitate at the gate. He held something within his arms. A Chihuahua. Denali assumed dully to himself. The smaller the dog, the faster he could get this event over with. Joe finally opened the door, and he tossed the bundle of fur into the ring, and a small squeal filled the air sharply.

Denali’s now predatory eyes locked onto the body, and for a second, out of instinct, he took a step to approach opportunity to kill. But then, when the small dog lifted its head to examine its surroundings and met his gaze, he halted, ears perked and his paw still in air. His tail hung at his legs, and for some peculiar reason, Denali couldn’t move. It was a puppy. A small, cream-colored Cocker Spaniel mix puppy with reddish-colored long curly ears and tail, paws, and splotches over his eyes and muzzle. It didn’t even look seven weeks old yet. It was the innocence that stopped Denali in his tracks. He was used to older dogs with fight in them, ones with reason to tape the mouths shut. Ones with enough sense to run for their life, ones to understand the danger they were in. This pup did seem afraid, yet it stared at him with such confusion that the wolfdog knew that the kid understood nothing of its situation. The pup’s great big, brown eyes shined with fear and youth.

I… I can’t kill this thing… Denali hesitated, feeling the hard gaze of the humans above him. Kill the pup now, and his own life would be saved and he would receive no beating. Don’t, and the pup would either be killed, or used in another dog’s baiting day, and he would be whipped to the point of crippled. He had been raised to kill, yet not once had he ever been introduced to a pup.

“W-Who are you?” it was the pup’s voice, soft, quiet, afraid. He took in the enormous wolfdog in front of him, towering over him, stained with blood which the pup did not understand had come from. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

Damn… Denali’s ears twitched. He heard his owner bang the metal wiring along the inside of pit, creating noise to aggravate the male. Denali’s teeth showed, slightly, and he stared down at the pup with a hesitant expression. He stood for another minute, and finally he spoke, an idea coming to him, despite the sheer dread and regret missing within him.

“Sleep.”

The pup sunk his head when Denali approached him, his teeth snarling at the tiny pup in aggression. Each step the male took, the pup sunk lower and lower to the dirt ground, whimpering softly. “I don’t understand…”

“Pretend you are sleeping.” Denali snapped, snarling loudly, causing the pup to scream in fright before the tiny puppy almost slammed its head against the dirt, and just at that time, Denali lunged. He wrapped his large jaws around the pup’s neck, and squeezed. The last sound from the pup was a high-pitched wail.

From above, the men watched in awe. Every muscle, what muscle the animal had, showed with each movement, a powerful creature with the instinct to kill. It was an astonishing sight, a tremendous display of sheer power. This large wolf had seemed to study his prey before he struck, intimidating and fierce, and the high gambler wondered that, from the way the wolf had so quickly ended the pup’s life, that it may be a bad idea to set his own dog in the pit with this one. The wolf had not let go of the puppy, and he could still hear obvious growling from the monster as he pinned the pup to the ground. Nothing was heard from the pup after the wolf’s jaws closed upon it. It had been a swift death. Brett was cackling loudly next to the calm man, and was rambling about how he “told him so”, regarding the fierceness of the wolf. Finally, the high gambler hummed and motioned for his gang their leave. He followed them. Brett panicked, and he looked to Joe, who was standing at the edge of the pit, readying the noose to attempt to take the dead puppy away from Denali. When he reached in to grab the pup, Denali growled menacingly.

“Leave it! He ain’t been fed since the other day.” With that, he hurried off to catch up to the high gambler and his group, aiming to find a decision on the upcoming fight.

Joe stared at Brett before the strange man disappeared, and then he looked to Denali. Denali was holding the pup now, faint blood staining the pup’s fur, gripped within the older male’s jaws. It was a pitiful sight, the pup dangling lifelessly. Such a shame how he had to put up with these sad situations almost every day. Dogs dying, killing, betting, it was all the same thing every day. So, with a heavy sigh, he released Denali, knowing that the wolfdog would not release his new kill from his jaws, and that he knew where to go to return to his pen. Strangely, the dog knew exactly how to return to his pen, but this made Joe’s job easier.

The gate opened, and Denali took off quickly. He almost ran full sprint down the long, narrow hallway until he reached his pen. He slid and trotted into the pen, curling up in the far corner with his back to the door. Joe reached the pen, closed the door, and after a long, hard stare, he left.

Denali released the pup’s body, the pup falling limply onto the concrete floor. He stared long, sorrowfully. He felt regret tying his gut in knots and his fur began to bristle. The pup was motionless, still. Its little eyes were closed. It was so small, had such a long life to live. To have ended up in this place was only a hell for the little thing. Death was what would have been best for the pitiful youngster.

Yet…

“Get up.”

The pup reawakened. He lifted his head and rolled onto his paws, shaking his body. He opened his eyes and looked to Denali with utter confusion. Denali spoke.

“Alright, here’s the deal. I’m going to regret this here after a while. I don’t know if you’ll make it.”

“DON’T tell me you’ve done gone and brought back a LIVE bait?!” It was the shaggy dog across the hall with his paused speech. He was standing at the edge of the fence, peering over into Denali’s pen.

Denali showed every tooth in his head. “Sit your ass down and keep your muzzle shut, you damned shag!” The dog sat down, saying nothing more. He then turned his attention to the rather frightened pup, having flinched noticeably at the male’s tone. Denali blinked, looking away for some moments before sighing.

“What do you mean?” the pup asked quietly.

“Hmm?”

“You said that I won’t ‘make it’…” the pup clarified his meaning, and he lifted his head. “What does that mean?

Denali wasn’t sure how or if he could explain his meaning to the kid. He sighed, and he shook his head, laying his chin against his paws. “Just keep low, out of sight, and shut up. I don’t want to hear a word out of you for as long as you remain here.”

The pup gasped at the abruptness of his words, but did as commanded and he curled up, right up against the wolfdog’s side. So tiny. He held his paws under his small body, and even though Denali disliked the closeness (he was used to being alone), he made no attempt to shove the pup away. He only remained still, allowing the pup to rest. He didn’t know how much longer it would be before he would have to leave the pen to go to another fight, and he didn’t know what exactly would happen if Joe discovered the pup still alive, and in his pen at that. He felt his stomach tie itself into knots over and over again. Why did he do it? He wasn’t even sure. He just… did it. On an impulse.

Or maybe it was because he saw himself whenever he looked at this pup.

……………………………………………………………………………….

Here, as the story goes, Denali was supposed to kill off the pup to show off how strong and menacing he was. What the humans didn’t know was that he couldn’t find the heart to end the pup’s life, and instead he convinced the pup to play dead while he figured out a way to get to get the pup out of there. In the image, is when Denali had just finished “killing” the puppy, and was holding it, growing at Joe to keep him from taking away the puppy.

I’m not going to make a drawing for this scene, but it is RIGHT after this (literally the next day) that law officials step in and take the dogs into custody and arrest the drug addict (aka Grett) and arrest Joe (who is rather relieved that the dogs are being released from fighting, he was only in it because Grett is his brother). They find Denali and tranquilize him while he is sleeping (under supervision and recommendation) and take the little puppy to put up for rehab and adoption, along with the many other dogs in the kennels.

Art and characters by me.