tip of the tongue

Death was near. The stench of rot hung in the air. The behemoth was dirty. Sand lined her pelt like a coat within a coat. She had been trecking for a day through the horrible dunes. Her mind slowly melted away. She had no clue why she was there. Her pads were blistered and damaged from the hot layer of sand. Her eyes were fuzzy from the bright sun that beamed down on her. Her creamy pelt blended in with the rolling dunes from afar. She had good coverage but the buzzards hung near encase she fell. From anothers standpoint one would see there was something wrong with the woman. She twitched here and there. Each step seemed to pain her mentally. As if it was forced. Her tail hung low, the tips of her wispy white fur slithered upon the sea of sand behind her. She would continue on until she reached her unknown destination.