Shitshitshitshitshit.

It’s all I can think as I watch the pup run off into the woods, way too fast for me to even think about catching it. I take another shot, but if it hits, the pup doesn’t show it.

I switch my attention back to the two pups stumbling around the clearing before me, clearly feeling the effects of the tranquilizer darts. First, one pup stumbles to the ground, then the other.

I jump up out of the creek and rush over to the pup nearest me. I’m still dripping wet when I reach down to scoop it up in one arm, then dash over to retrieve the other pup. I’m almost too panicked to appreciate how soft their fur is and how massive their paws are relative to their (again, relative) small size. Almost.

I cross back over the creek with the pups in my arms, glad I kept the kennel hidden and close—the pups are heavy, and they smell. Yeesh.

I close and latch the kennel door and radio over to Sarah, one of the rangers on the night shift, to four-wheel on over and pick up the kennel, then I grab my field kit and tranq gun.

I’m going after the runaway pup.

I find the pup just in time to watch it run full speed at Chris, and jump.

It’s not a pounce, exactly. I remember reading about this behavior in hellhound-timber wolf encounters. The wolf, trying to assert dominance, will throw itself bodily into the hellhound, kind of as a way of saying, “There’s more where that came from” without doing too much damage. Used on other wolves, it’s often a successful tactic for asserting dominance in territory disputes and other confrontations. In wolves’ confrontations with hellhounds, however, the “body bash” technique, as it’s called, proved… less successful.

It’s unsuccessful against Chris, too, given that the brave little pup is about the size of a terrier, nowhere near the height of its pony-sized parent. The pup is undaunted, however, and scrambles back to its feet and rears up to snap at Chris’s ankle.

I’m trying to decide whether it’s worth it to risk accidentally tranquilizing Chris instead of the pup when Chris bends over at the waist, hand outstretched. What the hell is he doing? He’s just asking to get bit.

Apparently, that’s exactly what he’s doing. The pup takes the bait, launching itself at Chris’s—ungloved, mind you—hand, and bites. Meanwhile, Chris’s other hand swoops down behind the pup, picking it up by the scruff of its neck and lifting it up into the air. Surprised, the pup releases Chris’s hand, but yips out a small tongue of bright yellow flame.

Chris holds the pup away from his body, clearly wary of the flames. He looks up, then, and spots me as I’m walking slowly toward them, not wanting to startle them. I walk to my left, trying to stay out of the pup’s line of sight. Chris immediately understands my plan and turns a bit so the pup is facing away from me.

“You missed one,” he says, but he looks relieved to see me, not pissed.

“Can you hold it still for another minute or so?” I ask quietly, kneeling to the ground and pulling open my field bag.

“I can try,” Chris says. He brings his free hand up underneath the pup and takes its hind legs in hand, wrapping his thumb and forefinger around one leg and his pinkie around the other. The pup is still trying to squirm, but Chris’s grip is gentle but firm.

Rather than try and tranq the pup from a distance, I grab my hypodermic needle kit and the bottle of sedative. I carefully load the correct dosage, then stand up behind the pup.

Chris brings it close into his chest, trying to hold the pup as still as possible. I place my hand on the pup’s back as well, and then administer the meds in its back-right haunch. The pup yips and tries to squirm, but between the two of us, we manage to hold it still enough so I can push the plunger all the way down.

As with its siblings, it takes a few seconds for the pup to calm, but not that many. Once it stops moving, Chris shifts his position and cradles the pup in his arms like a baby, stroking its chest and belly for a few moments and making soft cooing sounds.

I try not to be jealous as I replace the sedative and needle in their proper cases and turn toward the adult wolf in the trap.

“Uh, little help here?” I ask.

Once everyone is properly kenneled and tightly secured in the back of Chris’s truck—and I have a chance to change out of my sopping wet coveralls—we reverse the sedative and wait to see how the hounds react. They’re all still a little groggy, but they seem to be doing okay, so we say goodbye to the rangers on the night shift and start to head out of town.

Except, we don’t. I’m sitting in the cab of Chris’s pickup, wearing my lightweight headlamp and writing in my field notebook as best I can as the truck makes its way down the pothole-ridden road. I look up for a moment to see Chris drive right past the entrance to I-85.

“Uh, Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“You know where North Carolina is, right?”

“Sure do,” he says. “But we got one quick stop to make real quick first.”