How it began
It’s seven years since they brought me home. Mom calls it “gotcha day”, which is apparently a thing in adoption lingo. I find it rather aggressive-sounding. “Gotcha” is what I think when I pin a struggling lizard between my teeth and feel its satisfying squish. I don’t wish to associate it with my being enfolded into my domicile and family, but then again, perhaps it is appropriate, at that. I’ve also heard the term “furever home” which, I’ll be honest, sounds a bit twee, but such wordplay seems to please humans. I suppose if dogs shared their capacity for vocabulary, we would come up with silly words, too. I will admit, my celebratory feelings are somewhat mixed. I spent my first six months in the unfettered freedom of the countryside. There were no fences. No walls. No leashes. No vets. The world was mine. I came and went, and waved my wild tail where I pleased. The humans I lived with allowed me free reign, the use of their house and bed and food. And then one...