I will become a self of my former shell.

Handler performs Her role with such an elegance that it seems as natural to Her as breath itself; I can't tell if this is the result of a tireless practice and discipline or if She was simply born divine. I don't think a Handler can be made the way one of us can. A Handler is a beacon for all the feelings a Hound can have, desire, devotion, fury. Even a Hound scorned, angry at their Handler, cannot resist the siren's call to heel, the Handler redirecting the dog's rage to serve Her interests. She can toy with its obsession and twist it to Her benefit, and it is Her right to do so.

I expect Mistress to be firm with me, to challenge me and correct me when I am out of line. I want Her to offer me salvation from confusion and to direct me on how to serve Her. I expect Her to treat me as a weapon, a tool to use as She needs or wishes, I'm not human, I belong to Her as a loyal dog: She made me Hers. She can use me as She pleases, I can deal with things She needn't dirty Her hands with and I would do so happily, I will fight in Her stead so She never has to. She enables me to embrace the animal I am, so long as it serves Her interests. She is not just a superior, She is the only person to have my reverence, not just taking it as some officer would, but reshaping me so that it was always Hers to have. No one else could do that to me.

I have failed Her this time, also. I couldnt even complete a simple exercise without displaying to Her my thoughtlessness, I was made to pledge my obedience to Her once more. She made me angry and pointed out my glaring flaws, She even offered me the chance to leave Her, but I could never. I need Her guiding hand. I'm a dumb dog that could never make it on its own, She helped me understand that. I need Her. And I need to stop being a fucking disappointment.

I thought I was above them, I brushed off and fought against the insistent cries that I was like them. I thought I was better but let myself be humbled by a mere two of them, a worse performance than that of my now houndmate.

I knew myself to be strong, I couldn't lose. If I were to lose, I couldn't be myself anymore. I'm fierce and unbeatable and yet I was beaten. What am I now then?

I pushed this aside at first, clinging to the scraps of my identity as I was debriefed. She forced me to confront reality and showed me what I was. She compelled me to admit what I had come to realise. I am a hound. I hate this truth. I can't stand it, being one of those filthy dogs. But when I saw my shame I could refute it no longer, I look, act and sound like them. I fight like them, my houndmate may as well have been a mirror to myself.