The Comforts of Home

Did I mention that there are few amenities in the pound?  On the surface, this might seem to be obvious, but there are certain things to which we, as dogs, have become accustomed. 

From the time we saw advantage in approaching man as he sat around the miracle of that first fire, dogs have enjoyed various rewards: Treats, shelter, and a kind hand have followed us ever since.

No dog ever followed man into the pound.  Concrete floors without the pleasure of even a narrow blade of grass shooting from a crack; a morning devoid of treats; the only walk is around the circumference of the chain-link that hold us.  No wonder human prisoners will take their tin cup and rattle it along the fence.  Any noise is better than the howl of a lonesome dog.

I have a bed at home, cold and tidy.  My Contessa ordered it from the keyboard on her computer. Dogbeds.com she whispered as she types the site.  The image of sitting upon her lap and letting my eyes wander across the myriad possibilities of a god nights sleep is now but a memory.  The rag in my cell is thin and rank.

My attorney is visiting this afternoon.  Perhaps if I invite him to curl upon this hoax of a cushion, just try it once, he might work harder for my release.  As it is, the discomfort only prompts nasty dreams of that fickle postman whose hand I nipped, and that’s no way to make amends.

Fingers slipping beyond the boundary of the mail slot will forevermore inspire me to retribution.

Chow.