He was called 'Man's Best Friend' but right now he felt nothing of the sort.
Failure.
He sat on the sea of white, watching. Waiting.
Seven had spread themselves out, unable to approach. None asleep. All watching. Waiting.
Muscles fixed to legs, neck and jaws, that allow them to tear men apart now slack, exhausted. Ears that could hear even the lightest of footsteps rise and fall with each feeble breath.
Eyes that stare through men fill with worry. Watching. Waiting.
Pitiful, sorrowful whimpers break the silence, in unsuccessful attempts to rouse.
Moving softly, barely disturbing the soft beneath, he reaches a pale hand. Fingers so cold cause his sensitive nose to burn. He shifts his small head, an effort to replace heat.
Brown eyes close. Hoping. Waiting.
No response.
A mournful cry if his own breaks free of him. He lets it go. The others join him.
Howling. Howling in grief for what they have lost. Seven hearts, now as frozen and desolate as the landscape around them.
Shuddered gasps end them.
Watching. Waiting.
Timid paw becomes many as they approach and surround. Two lie across, three by the head, the largest takes a side to himself while the other becomes occupied.
Yet he does not move, staying under the hand upon his head. Thumb brushing across tanned fur.
Teeth chatter, eyes remained closed.
He's alive.
Now they lie there, for the human part of the retrieval team to find them.
Watching. Waiting.