I promised you, Dwight. No hunts, no pens in the backyard, no staked tethers. But what if the hunt is what you long for? I’m assuming I know what’s best for you. You don’t seem too accepting of suburban life. I know hound dogs have a sadness about them, but you sometimes look despondent. Tail down, heavy sighs. I buy you the best food, promptly feeding at breakfast and dinner. You have 2 beds in 2 different areas of the house. I bought you a deer antler (that really creeps me out). You loved it for a few minutes. Then it went the way of your other toys. Mr. Football Man, Flat Elephant, Squeaky Hedgehog, and Crinkle Corona Bottle, all cast aside, longing for your attention. They are piled in a basket near your bed. Sometimes one captures your notice for a quick shake, squeak, or run around the den, where its abandoned once again.
Maybe being a family pet is not your scene. You’re like a teenager who has a car, a mom who cooks and cleans, and a dad who doles out money, yet he still rebels. Dwight, my delinquent run away dog. You focus on what’s missing. The call of the wild.
If you had your way, your life story would go like this:
Catch a scent….follow it for miles through brambles, brush, thicket. Forge the stream after pausing for a cool drink. Tire of the run. Find a nice human to rub my ears, just the right way, feed me, give me a nice soft bed….maybe one toy. Hear what a good boy I am. How handsome. Stay a few days until that earthy, loamy smell calls me again.
Repeat the cycle. Dwight, the drifter. I wish it were safe for you to live that way. You can’t always count on finding a nice human. I’d like to let you off lead when we walk through forests and fields, but I’m fairly certain you would run, never looking back. I’m not willing to take that risk. I am responsible for you, Dwight. I will keep you safe. Let’s just accept that the hunt is not going to happen right now. You can lead me on a scent. I’ll follow through fields and woods. We all have to make compromises, D Man. Give suburbia a chance.