The Farm Dog barked in agreement. “I think I’ve picked up their scent-trail. They seemed to have walked along the edge of the lake. They left together, as a whole Pack. That’s good news, isn’t it? The Leashed Dogs and the Wild Pack must have set aside their differences after all.”

Wiggle dipped his head in resignation and went to join Lick and Grunt, who had found a flat stone by the lake and were stretching out in the sun.

Lucky watched the puppy walk away. He didn’t answer the Farm Dog’s question, thinking of the confrontation between Bella and Sweet the morning that he’d been expelled.

“Come on, Lucky. If we hurry, we can catch them by no-sun.” Mickey butted Lucky’s head cheerfully, then paused. “What’s wrong?”

Lucky’s head drooped. “They may not want me to follow them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I left the Pack, Mickey.”

The black-and-white dog gazed at him without understanding. “So we were wrong. We’ll say sorry; we’ll explain.” He cocked his head. “We’ve been over this. Why do you look so worried?” He glanced at the pups. “You can’t abandon us, Lucky. Not now.”

Lucky met his friend’s eye though his tail hung low. “You chose to leave. It was different for me. I was driven out by Alpha.” He lowered his voice so the waiting pups couldn’t hear. “He said I was a traitor and that the Pack would be better off without me.”

Mickey frowned. “What nonsense. Of course it isn’t! You’re the bravest, cleverest dog I know.” He licked Lucky’s muzzle. “Alpha’s just intimidated by you, scared of any challenge to his leadership. He’s not half the dog you are! Some dogs would have left the pups in the Dog-Garden, but you didn’t. Being with you gives me courage. You’ll just have to reason with Alpha. You’ll manage it, too—you could charm the rabbits out of their burrows!”

“I’ll try my best,” Lucky murmured, touched but not convinced.

A few dog-lengths away, the bored pups had started play-fighting. Grunt pounced on Wiggle and they rolled in the dirt, growling. Lick snapped her chops around the stems of some wild flowers, chewing, then spitting them out, her face scrunched up.

“Urgh! They’re horrible!”

Wiggle scrambled free of Grunt. “When will we have real food?” he whined, smacking his lips. “I’m hungry!”

“Me too,” Grunt echoed.

“We’ll find some food soon,” said Lucky vaguely.

“How about them?” yapped Grunt, bounding toward the lake. He stood at the bank, barking at the waterbirds. Out on the water, the birds turned wary heads toward the pup but soon resumed their indifferent clacks.