He is standing stock-still, she knows, out of her eye line, upwind. Her muscles ripple, bunched tight, ears straining. When she hears a rustle of tiny paws over the underbrush she springs, growling.
The rabbit startles and flashes out from its cover. She lopes after it leisurely, listens for the familiar zing and thud that means his arrow has found its mark.
When she finds him, he is kneeling over the rabbit. Arrow right through the eye, just like every time. The smell of blood fills her senses and she bares her fangs in a silent growl, salivating.
He looks up at her, eyes with a little too much shine, a little too red. She pads over to him and rests her nose against his cheek. His hand comes up against her neck, and he curls his fingers into her thick fur.