It’s an imperfect analogy. Still. Alice. Fernie. Tumnus. Lulu. Danny. Emma. Babs. Patty. Coco. Jessica. (I know them all, or did, once.) We name the dogs like people. Even when we don’t, they’re so very nearly persons—including the strayers.

It’s the strayers we send packing. It’s a turf thing.

Turf is just luck. Luck is fickle. In the back of my mind I’m kind of waiting for the world to run riot. For things to go upside down—for the poor lowly meek hated unfed to inherit the earth. But I don’t expect this—I don’t. The thought just sits there, niggling.

 


 

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