sit, stay, beg by kaijusalad
Dog bites. There's a scar around his ankle.
Dog bites. There's a name on his chest.
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What they do– it's not love.
If it is love, it's an animal kind of love. Proper domestication takes thousands of years and they're just the first generation of it. They scrounge each other's carcasses and they nip each other's fingers and they call mutualism a relationship because they're still stuck pretending they're human and not a different type of creature entirely.
Soap loves him, because he's meant to, and he's choosing to, and because he's got the strings of fate around his neck like a garrote.
(One of the dogs at the Predmostí burial site, 27-thousand years ago, was found with a bone in its mouth.)
Image source: compagnons, Unsplash
