The Wolf is my Spiritual Brother.
I am of the Wolf Clan.
Back in Viking days, before a shaman was admitted to the ÚLFHÉÐNAR, one must go into the forest necked, with no food or weapons, learn to survive the heat and cold, live, think like, act like, become the Wolf.
But there were Wolf Warriors long before the Viking Wolf Warriors.
Julius Caesar when he crossed the Raine, stopped on the bridge he had built to piss in the river.
The Wolf was marking his territory.
When General George Patton, a great-great-great grandson type of Julius crossed the Raine, he stopped on the bridge he had built to piss in the river.
The Wolf was marking his territory
Not all wolves like mutton.
Prefer red meat myself.
Don’t want no sheep meat.
Not fond of fishy tasting animals.
Not into eating birds.
Goats more down my line!
The Ole curly wolves grow tired of the sheep pissing and shitting their wool as they try to save them from themselves.
The Ole Curly Wolves have become Gama Alpha’s.
Get them a few goats to eat, his mama wolf, and their small pack, step back, distance themselves from the constant fearful bleating of the sheep about the wrong things, at the wrong time, all the time.
Jackals like mutton.
The Ole Wolves are getting tired of saving the sheep from the jackals so the sheep can piss on the Ole Wolves feet, again, and again, the ungrateful sons of bleating bitches!
The Wolves can come out of their dens to clean out the jackals after the bleating of the sheep subsides.
F#ck your sheep stupidity, lets see just how well you do playing with the unimpeded over sexed perverted pedophilic jackals.
The Ole dog.