Unfortunately, Vic isn't very good at hunting. Truth be told, he's not good at a lot of things, but it irks him that he's bad at hunting specifically because it's a valuable skill. In a small, rural town, it's hard to find a decent way to pass the time, especially since so much land belongs to grumpy old men who are perfectly okay with shooting trespassers. Hunting is the only suitable recreational activity, and Vic is terrible at it. He may as well be bad at breathing.
To say that his ineptitude is humiliating would be an understatement. He needs to be good at hunting in order to compensate for certain shortcomings . . . such as not being able to define ineptitude in the first place. No, being the simple creature he is, Vic has come up with a term that perfectly diagnoses his inability to succeed: screwup. He's not a screwup in the sense of being clumsy or oafish or dimwitted (though he also demonstrates these qualities), but rather, his screwupness shines through whenever he tries to do something nice. If he helps an old lady cross the street, she'll trip over his boot; if he tries to help someone pick up something they've dropped, he'll accidentally knock it into the sewer. These kinds of events happen so frequently that Vic is convinced that a higher power is dead set on making him look like an asshole. It would be unwise to help anyone today for this very reason. If Vic tries to do something nice during a hunting trip . . . well . . . a mistake is one thing, but a mistake involving a gun could be the end of him. Or someone else.
Vic is hunting with a few of his friends, as a point of fact. Maybe "friends" is too strong of a word. They're more like people he spends time with when he knows that he's going to be doing something that requires a vehicle of some kind. Vic doesn't own a car, of course, so it's nice to have that option available to him.
By now, he's spent enough time with the group that his contributions are at least on par with the burden of dragging him along, so he's free to go exploring on his own. He creeps through the forest slowly, keeping his eyes open for a deer or a bird or anything with a pulse. A shrill whimpering sound catches his attention. At first, he thinks that it's a bird, but when he sees something small and fluffy caught in a bear trap, he realizes that it's quite the opposite.
As he draws near, Vic hypothesizes that the animal is a very large coyote. In reality, it's a very small wolf. Its pelt is grey, or at least that's what it looks like from afar. The animal's fur is actually yellowish-white, but a collection of black ticks creates the illusion of grayness from a distance. The softer fur on its belly is ivory-colored, but it's hard to tell because it's stained with blood. If Vic were to guess, he'd say that the pup is rather young. He doesn't know much about wolves, but it's probably not likely that this infant is going to survive if he walks away now.
For reasons that Vic himself can't explain, he fiddles with the trap and sets the wolf free. It doesn't move much, of course, because its legs seem kind of messed up. Vic picks up the shivering wolf and wraps it in his coat. He tells himself that he'll let the pup go if it gives him any trouble, but it doesn't so much as nip at his fingers.
They make it all the way back to the truck, where Vic's friends are waiting. They aren't keen to bring a wild animal into town, but Vic promises to take care of everything on his own. The driver is worried that he'll stain the seats with blood, but Vic assures him that he'll be careful. They cruise through the mountains and drop him off at the hospital, because there's no veterinary clinic nearby. The doctors are surprised to see a wolf on their operating table, but the community is so small that weirder things have happened, and they agree to fix up the little tyke.
After a few weeks of gradual recovery, the wolf pup finds a home with Vic. He lives in the same house as the butcher, who agreed to provide housing in exchange for labour a few years back. This is a problem, because Vic can't bring the pup to the shop, where he spends half of his time. Wolves are carnivorous, after all, and having one in close proximity to raw meat is probably not a good idea. Vic is therefore forced to tie up his pet and leave him at home. Every day, when he gets back from work, the pup tugs at its leash excitedly. The poor animal loves Vic more than anyone has ever loved him for years. To be honest, it feels kind of nice to know that someone cares about him, even if that someone is an animal.
When winter comes, things get complicated. Vic can no longer leave his wolf tied up outside. He is forced to bring him to the butcher shop. Luckily, his boss is understanding. He apparently owned a bloodhound when he was a boy. Vic doesn't care about his life story, but he's willing to listen as long as his own friend is by his side.
Huh . . . friend . . .
It's true: Vic has a friend now. Someone actually cares whether he lives or dies. Someone is willing to put up with his spurts of anger. Someone likes him for who he is, without asking that he change or put more effort into their relationship. Vic has a friend, and that means that someone likes him.
Truth be told, he likes his friend back.