Dog lovers

What are your choices in general? Since when are hosts chosen?

In elections, we are still slipped pre-selected trained and castrated candidates, each under a shiny coat also has a strict collar with spikes inside. Anyone can be pulled down - both an opposition candidate and a positional one. Anyone can be commanded "To the leg!", anyone can be commanded "Place!", anyone - "Face!".

The election ritual is not meaningless. He must humiliate both the voter and the elected, show everyone who is the boss here. Everything is on the chain. Some without permission cannot be elected anywhere, others cannot elect anyone.

No one to bark. Once every five years, you need to remind the wards what they were taught on the dog playground.

But the owners still feel that their government needs justification, justification, legitimation. At first it was such that they let us off the leash and let us run, and for this we had to stop yapping. Then they put us back on the leash, but at least they scraped the leftovers from our table into a bowl. Then they were allowed to blow off steam, setting them on stuffed animals and instructors in quilted jackets. Now there is nothing, you can only run along the steel wire along the fence, your stomach rumbles, the yard is strewn with shreds of cotton wool and filthy, and in the eyes of the trainees, it seems, the understanding that the stuffed animals are not to blame for anything lit up.

Once upon a time it seemed to us that they were the spokesmen for our aspirations. Yes, we did not choose them, but they took us with them for a walk in the forest, threw a stick at us, allowed us to rub against their boots and patted us on the withers. But for a long time no one has come out to our yard, and they quickly rush past the gate, along paths that a short chain does not allow us to approach. They are afraid that we will bite.

Because of the closed doors, it smells of grub, the feast continues, but we, skinned, with matted hair, kicking the dog, now cause only fearful disgust in the hosts - it does not occur to them to throw us a bone. Watching us rage, they ask themselves why they took us from the kennel at all. It seems to them that they once took us. Were we mad? Were we well vaccinated against rabies? Eh, you didn’t have to take it, you also had to have puppies in a bucket of water and a lid on top.

The feast continues. Three hundred kilogram fat men, stuck at the table, rake stale and weathered food with their hands, push them into their mouths, swallow wearily, burp exhaustedly, but they cannot, cannot stop, although the intestines are already clogged and torn, the fatty sides break through, the undigested falls out and they keep rowing and rowing, rowing and rowing and swallowing the unchewed.

They would like to leave the house, breathe, but outside they bark and grin. Maybe they would like to visit the neighbors, but they quarreled with the neighbors while they were poisoning them with dogs and throwing shit over the fence.

There are other ways to deal with us. Change the terms of the social contract. If a strict collar does not reason, you can use a whip, or you can use a boot under your belly. They tried it in the summer - and barely managed to pull their hand back. Slipped on heaps, almost collapsed into the mud with the whole carcass. Now they come to the window, they look how we, howling, catch, whirling and rattling the chain, our own tail, and try to whistle us with greasy lips. Affectionate and playful.

In fact, our memory is nowhere, and before we were very happy with the whistle. But now it somehow looks completely false, and the stricter has rubbed the wool down to the skin.

We are now promised a walk and a bone. And we no longer want a walk, it’s too late for us already with this, we managed everything for ourselves. We need to get off the chain. We may still think that we will run away from evil masters and go over to good ones. But still, it seems, a little, and we will feel that it is possible without hosts at all. Live, out, wolves.