WISE ONE

I am an old dog – old enough to remember the Rebellion from when I was a pup,  the fleeing, the stories that I couldn’t understand until much later. Yanked by the scuff of my neck by my mother, so much less attentively than usual, and tossed forward with my three brothers, pushed into a run when I was not yet awake. My tiniest brother trampled by the German Shepard next door and his whimpers clouded by the scurries of feet on the pavement. Looking back as Mom thought at us, ”Go!”, and I followed my brothers towards the pack leader at the head of the street as Mom grabbed Little up in her teeth and ran up to catch up with the rest of us. The streets silently filled with dogs,  strangely even more silent than the quiet movements we had learned to move in as pups. The shop owner was the first of the little Bare Ones to emerge onto the scene, letting out a shriek, his head barely visible above the backs of our people who now filled the street, and at that moment all the pack ran at full speed, no longer any attention to quiet. “Faster!” “Go!” “Now!” “They know!” No time left, and I was getting trampled, too, at first, until I felt a stranger – no it was the Great Dane from the bakery – grab me and someone else grabbed Middle beside me. Then I couldn’t see any of my brothers any more in the rush of bodies and fur and I twisted my head up to bury my face and teeth into the jaw of the Great Dane in fear.

And I don’t remember much more about that night – perhaps I was too young, perhaps too tired , but I didn’t see my mother or Little again, and Great Dane was a kindly and comfortable old dog and Middle and Stripe found us at the clearing and slept with us all together, and we did not speak again of that night. I tell you now, young pup, because that is my job as your mentor to the Growth of Things to learn the history of our people and, as I never had pups of my own, it falls to me, such teachings...