"Not very likely at all, if you don't perpetrate shenanigans." Once you've got your arms under his knees, he's not heavy. "Don't strangle me. Cool, here we go." You step out, cautious at first, but if he doesn't panic you bet you could go pretty fast carrying him like this.
You laugh, and jounce him a bit. It gets to be a game: he tries to gnaw on you, and you hop and jog and dance along the trail trying to keep him from getting hold of you -- but without dropping him, that would be a forfeit somehow.
You leave off angling for a kiss when you're distracted by something strange on the ground. "Pawprints," you realize, sunk into a bit of soft lakeside mud. That's why it caught your attention so oddly. You should have smelled whoever owned those paws long before you saw the tracks, but here they are. You find yourself sniffing at the breeze, regardless, but it only tells you lake and mud and autumn and twilight, and geese somewhere, all of which you've long since observed. You wriggle until Bel puts you down. "Some little dog," you say, looking around. "And no shoe tracks. That's not right, is it? We're not close to the other campsites."
"Yeah, plus you're supposed to keep pets leashed so they don't end up pissing on people's tents." You squat on your heels to touch the pawprint, judging the mud's dampness. "Within the last hour, I'd say."
"That's a stroke of luck," you say. "And it's been such a beautiful clear day, the scent trail should show up like— like— anything. Do you think you can manage fur again? You said you hadn't been changing back and forth much, but this'd be as good an opportunity as any to get your rescue practice in."
"I didn't bring the dog stuff..." But hey, there really is almost no one here, and at the worst Erskin will get a scolding from the ranger. You strip, stash your clothes, and drop into fur. The first scent that hits you is a great waft of oh wow he really had sex with me a lot, but you forbid yourself to get distracted by how great he smells with you all over him, and focus on the dog's tracks. You don't have the knowlege to go with the senses, but it smells pretty fresh, and you get an impression of 'excited and slightly gassy' with an undercurrent of anxiety, maybe. You have no clue how to convey this to Erskin when he's on two legs, but you guess if you find the dog he can see for himself. You trot along the scent trail, dipping your head occasionally to confirm that you're on the right track.
You follow as best you can, longing to be down on all fours yourself but trying to think of this as your own sort of practice. If you're going to be traveling with Bel you might as well be prepared to haul yourself upright across any amount of stick-strewn terrain. Bel is serious, almost studious, and says only little things to himself like "Here!" and "Where?" "Oh, there it is," and very occasionally, to you, "Hello, are you still there, hooray you are, you're very pretty," which is adorable. He's a big handsome monster that comes up past your hips even with his head down, and he's as expressive as a gangling puppy. What a shame he wasn't born like this. You can just imagine at six months, all saucer paws and rope-tail, hunting rats just this soberly.
The scent trail gets less excited and more worried as the poor little creature strays farther and farther from the campsites. You find where it tried to cross a stream by jumping onto a slippery rock and fell into the mud. You find where it tried to go under some raspberry canes and left a few tufts of light brown fur on them, along with a whole lot of upset-smell. Without knowing it, you're 'muttering' to Erskin the whole time, things like, "Oh, you didn't. You did, oh no. Poor thing. Aww, you are so lost. Poor guy, we'll find you, hang tight." It doesn't take all that long to catch up, given the hour-or-so head start the dog had. It wasn't travelling all that fast. Your approach is heralded by a storm of thin, panicky barking. You plop your ass down and wait for the dog to get the freakout over with.
You're footsore and wet up to one knee, so it's nice to be able to sit down beside Bel. "Poor little idiot," you agree with him. "Some people's kids, eh?" It's some sort of little curly disaster mix, too much floppy ear and not enough leg. It's filthy with mud and leaf litter, and making things worse by trying to back itself under a log. "We're nice!" you announce to the dog. "Look! We are so nice. Aren't we nice, Bel?"
"I'm super calm," you reply. This involves a yawn. "And nice. And just really really calm." You glance at Erskin and inadvertently add, "You're lovely and you smell good."
"I likewise find you very attractive and we should have more sex tomorrow," you agree, licking the short dense fur of his forehead, which tastes bad for some reason. Well, probably for the reason of most things taste bad when you're this shape. But he looks at you sharply. "What?" "What?" you repeat, surprised at his surprise. Then you're distracted by the little dog, which has finally stopped barking and is now eying the two of you, growling in a blustery sort of way. Probably starting to feel a little more in control of the situation. "Those fucking filth-curtain ears," you comment. "Docking would have been kinder." The poor thing couldn't focus them forward if it's life depended on the action.
Leaving aside, for the moment, the fact that you have apparently been gushing about his charms out loud in wolf language, you get up and pad a little closer to the dog, ignoring its growling. "I'm nice," you tell it with your posture, some snuffling noises, a certain little bounce in your step, "I want to be friends, you should be friends with Erskin, he's awesome. Whoops, there I go again. That's embarrassing."
"Hold your tail higher," you advise. "Up over your back—just wave it all about like a bloody flag, you have to exaggerate for them. And give a big play bow, elbows on the ground and all." You add, at his skeptical look, "I know it feels overfamiliar but it's practically a hello for them, especially the little sorts who wouldn't know nuance if it bit them on the nose. Speaking with dogs requires the mindset that you don't have three specks of brain matter to rub together and everyone in the world's your hump buddy. Like— what are they called, clowns? Those colorful humans that fool around as a job? Go on, like that."
"Oh god, really?" you complain, but then you just go ahead and ham it up as hard as you can. Basically, you do the equivalent of shouting HELLO BEST FRIEND, WHEE BIRTHDAYS AND RAINBOWS! at the top of your lungs.
You contract an unfortunate case of the giggles. This, you assume, is why humans invented their precious little picture phones. You really wish you had a picture phone right now. Bel is lying on his back, his tail going like a propeller and his tongue hanging out, while the little dog gravely inspects his genitals and then decides to be friends. Bel receives a muddy nose-press to the cheek and shoots you a sidelong please tell me I'm done sort of look. "We're not inviting your new friend to tomorrow's hump session," you inform him. "But good work, soldier."
You are deeply grateful he doesn't have a way of taking pictures. Especially since, mortified as you are, you still respond to his praise much more obviously in this form than the wry half-smile you would've given as a human. But hey, mission accomplished. Small muddy dog befriended. It really is an awful mess, poor critter; you give its weird little eyebrow a parental lick and herd it over to Erskin so he can pick it up, because you can't imagine it walking all the way back to the camp on its own stubby legs, shivering like it is.
Oh, it's so muddy, and so eager to be picked up by someone with arms. It takes you a few tries to get a proper handle on the wiggly, whiny, slimy thing. "Help me, help me!" It cries at you, and you finally get it clutched to your chest. "Yes, alright, shh," you tell it, stumbing back to your feet. You think you're getting a blister. This is a terrible adventure. "Let's go back to our place for a rinse," you decide. "I'm not trotting hither and yon like some barnyard pig."
After shaking yourself off in an agreeing sort of way, you make a game of locating the smoothest, least ankle-grabbing route back to camp for Erskin; it keeps you busy enough that you don't accidentally tell him more than two or three times how cute he looks all muddy and rescuey and wrinkling his nose when it gets a paw on his mouth. Only once you've reached the camp do you realize you were so distracted by this that you forgot to pick up your clothes at the place where you found the dog's trail. Apparently wolf brain has a shorter attention span than human. Well, since you left your pack open, your teeth are sufficient to dig out a towel to bring to Erskin, and he knows where the water jug is. While he's de-muddying himself, you locate the collar marked 'Sirius' and a leash and bring them out for going to find the dog's people. You're kind of curious to interact with humans while playing a dog. Erskin seems to get a laugh out of it.
You wipe as much mud off with your fingers, then rinse the little dog, in the process finding a collar and two inches of gnawed-end leash. "Escape artist, hmm?" you ask. The dog goes, "Why are you being so mean?" as piteously as is possible for something with such big eyes and draggly ears, which is very. You finish the wash fast, towel it off, and clip the purple lead to its collar to keep it from dashing straight off again. Post-wash zoomies are a serious condition. "I AM THE BOSS OF EVERYTHING EVER," the small dog announces, running in frantic circles around the tent peg you've attached it to. You attend to Bel, who is sitting primly, and who gets to his feet and stands at a four-legged version of attention. His paws form a perfect rectangle and his tail hangs as straight as a brush-stroke. You are deeply amused. "I am very serious," Bel tells you, lifting his chin. "I am important and beautiful. I am good." You lick him between the ears in agreement, then get the collar and lead on. You check the fit with two fingers under the collar. "How's it feel?" you ask, tugging gently.
