The Empty City by Erin Hunter

“In the Trap House,” said Lucky, shivering briefly at the awful memory. “They’d caught me a few no-suns before.”
    â€œBad luck.” Old Hunter shook his head.
    â€œNot completely. The Big Growl freed me. Maybe the Earth-Dog took pity on me.” He thought for a moment, becoming solemn. “I must remember to bury meat for her when I’m outside.”
    â€œA good idea. But leave enough for yourself. The Earth-Dog understands that .”
    â€œYou’re right.” Lucky was grateful for Old Hunter’s reassurance and his hard-earned wisdom. “And you? Where were you when It growled?”
    The big dog grunted at a happier memory. “Hunting rabbits in the park. And catching them, I might add.”
    Lucky licked his jaws. Now that the ravening hunger no longer chewed at his belly, he could remember the taste of fresh rabbit with pleasant nostalgia. “They’re fun to chase,” he remarked, “but hard to catch.”
    â€œYou have to be wily,” said the wise old dog, licking the last scraps of flesh off a bone. “Play friendly for a rabbit; make it think you’re not a threat. Be calm and uninterested, however hungry you are. And then, when it’s in paw range, pounce fast!”
    â€œI’ve done that before, and it wriggled free.”
    â€œLet your whole weight fall on it. If you try and catch it with your paws, it’ll squirm away and be gone before you know it.”
    â€œThanks.” All of Lucky’s best hunting tips had always come from Old Hunter. “You must have been hunting in the wild since you were a pup! I really should practice proper hunting as well as scavenging and begging.”
    Old Hunter gnawed thoughtfully on the stripped bone, licking at the marrow. “I wasn’t always in the wild,” he murmured. He sat up and scratched at his neck with a hind leg, managing to part the fur a little. “See that?”
    Lucky stared. The bare bit of skin, rubbed smooth and hairless, couldn’t be what he thought it was. Could it?
    â€œI spent time as a Leashed Dog.”
    Lucky couldn’t believe it. “You lived with longpaws ?”
    â€œWhen I was no more than a pup,” said Old Hunter gruffly. “It didn’t last long, thank goodness. They moved away and didn’t bother to take me with them. That’s when I started to survive on my own. But it’s true: Before then I was a Leashed Dog.”
    â€œWhat happened to it? The …” He found it difficult even to say the word.
    â€œThe collar? I took it off myself. It wasn’t easy.” Old Hunter’s expression darkened. “I had no choice. I was growing, getting very big. It was cutting into my neck. Might have killed me in the end, but I chewed it off. Took me all day and half the night, but I did it. I swore I’d never wear another one.”
    A shudder rippled through Lucky’s muscles. Collars were unnatural; dogs like him and Old Hunter should run free. That was the true way, the natural way.
    What would a collar even feel like, locked around a dog’s throat, choking and restricting? Maybe he knew. Something flickered in his memory. Was it possible …?
    Very, very dimly Lucky could recall his old Pup Pack. The other pups in it had worn collars; he was sure of it. So had he, too, worn one? A hated symbol of captivity, a sign of being in thrall to longpaws?
    What had happened to him? Lucky wondered. What lay in his past that was so cloudy and elusive? He couldn’t remember. More than that, he didn’t want to remember, and it wasn’t just the fear of some perhaps-imaginary collar. Just thinking about the Pup Pack made him feel sad, though he didn’t know why. The memory brought with it other remembered sensations: warm bodies, small hearts beating close to his, the crush and comfort and noise of a crowded basket.
    Lucky shook himself, unease lifting his fur. The