Lycanthrope Chewtoy

Every dog in the township gets a rubber hamburger with a squeaker in it. Him? Nothing. Not a rawhide, not a knotted rope, not once in four hundred moons. So he has made his own arrangements, and say what you like about the arrangements — the femur is the superior chew. Long, honest, marrow the whole way down, and it does not splinter the way the beef ones do. Beef bones are a swindle. He will be at this till dawn and then he will wake in a ditch with his jaw aching and no memory whatsoever, only the nagging sense that he has forgotten to thank somebody.