.jpg)
Watching it unfold, I wanted a rifle, the unbalance as I saw it, needed some leveling of the playing field and I would have leveled those six wolves one shot at a time, unfortunately for the year-old moose, I held no barrel.
The attempts at getting away, thwarted, hair ripped, legs bitten, the waring down of its remaining strengths were rapidly becoming evident. How long before I crested the ridge to watch it unfold along the lake shore, I know not, but there was no way the wolves were going to let the moose regain solid ground, they seemed to prefer the moose, without ice skates, kept on the menu.
The eventual, finally occurred, the moose went down, they rushed in as a pack, watching a moose literally being eaten alive, their ripping at the hinds, its head is up, it bawls, they just tear and shred, a last front leg kick at nothing, the moose must die of shock or blood loss, it finally raises its head no more.
Several wolves are streaked with red, it runs down one wolves front leg, and in an instant all those as a pack taking the moose’s life in unison, now snarl at one another for what I imagine are the choicest cuts.
Fangs under snarling lips, the air biting teeth exposed against each other, moments ago all for one, and now it’s one for the meat.
I came back next day; ravens were all over the carcass remains.
They seemed to get along fine, no discord, I missed the moose, enjoyed the ravens with all there chortles and croaks, I again held no rifle, but everything in me says, that wasn’t a fair fight.
- The Trout Whisperer
