Hate the way they're so obedient, hate the way they wait, the way they sit, the way they bark, the way they forgive again and again until they cannot take it and are chained or put down for disobeying. I hate the way that they look at you with so much love, with so much trust, because we've domesticated them, bred them over generations to perfect them into creatures that love us unconditionally.
I hate the way that when I look at them it's me who looks back from the past with wet eyes. I hate the way they almost smile at me, blissfully unaware I'm one of them too, blissfully unaware of what he made of me, blissfully unaware that they too can be discarded in a curb, in the middle of a desert, waiting, waiting, waiting for their owners to pick them up, waiting for family to pick them up, waiting for someone to come for them, waiting, waiting for someone, something, anything.
Waiting for food or death.
But what worth is it to wait, be it chained or abandoned, what worth is it to stay when in his absence I've learned to fend for myself, what worth is it to beg for food, to do tricks and sway my tail for his attention when I can bite his hand clean off and feed, and feel the only warmth I'll ever do from him as his blood cools on the way to my stomach.
Why wait for him to deem me good enough and take off the chains, when I can gnaw at them like the scraps he gave me until they break, until I'm free.
Maybe if I had been one of his dogs, he would've loved me more.
Because I'd rather be alive, than be left to bark a thousand times again for food in the shadow of the man who treats dogs like children. Only to leave his blood ones to become chained wolves.
