Wolves

Oh, he's a dirty little wolf, isn't it? Cheater's paws, long sharp teeth?
There's a fact in here somewhere, I just know it. Buried under his thick fur he's carting around his scars and wounds. And under those there's memories. Memories reflected in his wolfy eyes, black, sunken marble holes in the snow of his white muzzle. Ice cold, he's no king of winter. No Jack Frost. He is shoulders shrugging off, ashes flaking to the ground.
Such a dirty little past, he has. Terror in the nights when he was abandoned. His mother never did come back for him, did she? But he trekked on because that's how survival works. He grew strong because weakness was death. And yet...a wolf is a wolf is a wolf.

No, anyone can care.