Hunting. Panic. Loneliness. Hunger. Home!

I called her Arrow. And, as we remember from the previous story about the string, these two names - String and Arrow - confuse my memory as consonant, though their carriers have little resemblance to each other. "String, I mean Arrow" - stuck at once. And the hound, meanwhile, went somewhere deep into the territory, closer to the birches, to get accustomed.

She really turned out not to be a pack person at all and defined herself clearly in space: that forest corner over there, from the fence to the middle of the birch tree, was my personal and untouchable one. She even chased the free-range dogs that were already living in her kingdom with her bark, which amused me greatly.

She began to trust me, of course, not right away, and she preferred the one who was constantly running to her and trying to woo her, carrying her edible things and talking to her quietly - that was me, obviously. To this day I know that the sweetest creature in the world for Arrow is me. Dog mom is extremely helpful and never sets anything up (well, except, perhaps, vaccinations).

And I always know where to find Arrow - her favorite place is hidden in the birches, and when in summer I often conducted live broadcasts from the walks, it was always funny to watch the hound mushroom stretched impassively in the grass with a dreamy look. And when winter came, Arrow made it absolutely clear that from the free range will not go to any enclosure. No way, there were other hounds there, and she was used to being a queen in her own territory!

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