The snow is wet beneath my paws, clinging to my lupine jaws. I pant and trot, halt and scent, finding where my dinner went. 

I've hunted here for far too long. All I hear is winter's song—my huffing breath, the creaking trees, the whistle of an ancient breeze. Jingling bells—not my prey. I look ahead. Is that a sleigh? A fattened man in red steps down, places something on the ground. 

Once he leaves, I advance with care, smelling rabbit in the air. Ears I straighten and lips I lick. A bowl of meat from Old Saint Nick.