Dogge

And even now I have mixed feelings for the first ten years of my life. I am naturally sickened that these were spent at the end of menancing chain and I feel a natural revulsion as I remember eating rancid scraps off a dirt floor while being kicked and choked. But I also feel blessed, and I say this with no massochism. Any child born, especially back then, was fortunate to see their first birthday and I saw ten. Ten years. And that is where the mixed feelings come in. Because, as I see it, even life at its most rotten and horrible, is still life. A year spent living as a dogge is still a year spent.

I spent ten years being groomed. No, not brushed and powdered and tied with a bow because I knew of no such kindness or luxory. I spent ten years being trained. I was not taught any tricks or shown how to drag a fox out of hole. I was being shaped and molded because bigger things were to be thrown at me. The random spinnings would propel me toward the real revelation.