A transmission from the fur-folk — on belonging, freedom, and the mystery of human affection. A dog suspects he’s been misplaced in the wrong-pack.
I suspect I am not where I belong.
The pack here is strange. No one sniffs. No one rolls. No one respects the sanctity of post pee-squat meditation.
Every morning, I’m walked (herded, really) through Oak & Linden, leashed to my human—codename: February. I leave my message on the pavement: two scrapes, one paw-press. Scent-layered Morse. Translates to: “WHERE PACK?”
No reply. Only a Pomeranian named Yookie in a stroller wearing doggles.
The February is soft. She scratches well. She means well. But she is not of the fur-folk.
She does not sniff the couch before sitting. She does not chase squirrels. She does not react properly to doorbells. Instead, she says things like, “Let’s practice non-attachment.”
Non-attachment? I’ve seen what happens when you leave your squeaky goose unattended. Chaos. Betrayal. The golden retriever down the street still hasn't recovered.
She feeds me kibble called “Muck Duck” and lights candles when it rains. I love her. I really do. But I can’t help wondering...
What if I was switched at kennel?
Some nights I remember smells. A dented bowl. The breath of other puppies in sleep. A scent trail that curled into warmth and crusty socks.
I think I had a brother. Or a sock mate. Someone I used to wrestle and then fall asleep on. Someone who understood the language of paws.
I’ve established a Watchpoint under the couch. From there, I monitor humans. February. The Mailman. The Box Bringer (Amazon). They all seem lost in their own ways, unaware of the basic rules of territory and bone politics.
Hazel, the boxer with the pink collar and chaotic gait, agrees. She’s part of the resistance. Her tail says, “I’ve seen things.”
We believe there’s a gate somewhere. Past the trash bins and the wind chimes. A portal to True Dogness—a realm where tennis balls grow wild and every puddle is a lake.
To February, I leave this:
I love you. But I am more than a comfort object. I am a seeker. A sniffer of truths. A howler at what must be howled.
Unless there’s peanut butter. Then I’ll postpone.
Sincerely,
W.E. James, Affectionately known as Good Boy
(Formerly: Sparky)
P.S. Tell Yookie I meant the growl in a flirty way.