The Fifth Elephant - Terry Pratchett [53]
Gaspode looked around the clearing, Angua had rekindled the fire; Gaspode wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it, but actual wolves had dragged in actual fallen wood for her. And then another had turned up with a small deer, still fat after the autumn. He dribbled at the smell of it roasting.
Something human and complicated was going on between Carrot and Angua. It sounded like an argument but it didn’t smell like one. Anyway, recent events all made perfect sense to Gaspode. The female ran away and the male chased her. That’s how it went. Actually, it was usually about twenty males of all sizes, but obviously, Gaspode conceded, things were a bit different for humans.
Pretty soon, he reckoned, Carrot would notice the big male wolf sitting by the fire, And then the fur would fly. Humans, eh?
Gaspode wasn’t sure of his own ancestry. There was some terrier, and a touch of spaniel, and probably someone’s leg, and an awful lot of mongrel. But he took it as an article of faith that there was in all dogs a tiny bit of wolf, and his was urgently sending messages that the wolf by the fire was one you didn’t even stare directly at.
It wasn’t that the wolf was obviously vicious. He didn’t need to be. Even sitting still, he radiated the assurance of competent power. Gaspode was, if not the victor, then at least the survivor of many a street fight, and as such would not have gone up against this animal even if backed up by a couple of lions and a man with an ax.
Instead, he sidled over to a female wolf who was watching the fire haughtily.
“Yo, bitch,” he said.
“Vot vas that?”
Gaspode reconsidered his strategy.
“Hi, foxy…er…wolf lady,” he tried.
A certain lowering of the temperature suggested that this one hadn’t worked either.
“’Ullo, miss,” he said, hopefully.
Her muzzle turned to point at him. Her eyes narrowed.
“Vot har you?” Ice slithered off every syllable.
“Gaspode’s the name,” barked Gaspode, with insane cheerfulness. “’M a dog. That’s a kind of wolf, sort of thing. So…what’s your name, then?”
“Go avay.”
“No offense meant. ’Ere, I heard tell wolves mate for life, right?”
“Vell?”
“Wish I could.”
Gaspode froze as the she-wolf’s muzzle snapped an inch from his nose.
“Vere I come from, ve eat things like you,” she said.
“Fair enough, fair enough,” muttered Gaspode, backing away. “I don’t know, you try to be friendly and this is what you get…”
Nearer the fire, the humans were getting complicated. Gaspode slunk back and lay down.
“You could have told me,” Carrot was saying.
“It would’ve taken too long. You always want to understand things. Anyway, it’s none of your business. This is family.”
Carrot waved a hand toward the wolf.
“He’s a relative?” he said.
“No. He’s a…friend.”
Gaspode’s ears waggled. He thought: Whoops…
“He’s very big for a wolf,” said Carrot slowly, as if filing new information.
“He’s a very big wolf,” said Angua, shrugging.
“Another werewolf?”
“No.”
“Just a wolf?”
“Yes,” said Angua sarcastically, “just a wolf.”
“And his name is…?”
“He would not object to being called Gavin.”
“Gavin?”
“He once ate someone called Gavin.”
“What, all of him?”
“Of course not. Just enough to make certain that the man set no more wolf traps.” Angua smiled. “Gavin is…quite unusual.”
Carrot looked at the wolf and smiled. He picked up a piece of wood and tossed it gently toward him. The wolf snapped it, doglike, out of the air.
“I’m sure we will be friends,” he said.
Angua sighed. “Wait.”
Gaspode, the unheeded spectator, watched as Gavin, without taking his eyes off Carrot, very slowly bit the wood in two.
“Carrot?” said Angua, sweetly. “Don’t do that again. Gavin isn’t even in the same clan as these wolves, and he took over the pack without anyone even whining. He’s not a dog. And he’s a killer, Carrot. Oh, don’t look like that. I don’t mean he pounces on wandering kids or eats up the odd