Barnaby stood between the wolf and the pen. He lunged, not with a sound, but with pure, desperate intent. He nipped at the wolf’s hocks, weaving like a weaver’s needle. The wolf snapped, its teeth clicking inches from Barnaby ’s ear.

Old Man Silas, the shepherd, would shake his head at Barnaby . "A silent dog is a useless dog, Barnaby ," he’d mutter, tossing a scrap of jerky to the loud ones. "If you don't find your voice soon, you'll be sent to the valley to be a pet. And a pet is just a wolf who gave up."

Barnaby didn't want to be a pet. He wanted the wind in his fur and the responsibility of the flock. but every time he opened his mouth, nothing but a soft puff of air came out. He was a late wee pup, and the world was moving on without him. The Night of the Red Moon