There’s bag of dry dog food riding around

 

in the back of Barb’s car and it has a  kind of early homosapien, cave wall etching of wolves stalking a forlone bison on some  vast prairie.

It’s a wild food for savage animals; venison and buffalo, snarling teeth with dripping jowls, muscles gathered, ready to pounce.

The beast on the bag is wary, eyes large, ready to bolt, to no avail, surrounded as it is by the pack, about to be torn to pieces, it’s buffalo life passing by it’s buffalo eyes.

Then there is our dogs, draped on the couch like Dali’s clock, sprawled across the big red chair or slopped up against the wall passing gas and snoring. They bear only faint resemblance to any sort of lawn ornament  that alone wildlife..

They arise yawning, fuzzy with sleep, melt off the couch, sniffing at the bag, swirling like smoke around Barb’s feet and stuffing their snouts into the open food bin for a bite before she shoos them away.

The quivering haunch of bison is replaced with  squeaky toy, a worn slipper or anything soft that’s comforting to carry about in their veterinarian cleaned teeth.

What have we done; made them into our hoped for image or brought out their true personality, it is beyond  me to tell the difference. Perhaps that’s why so many of them seem to look like us.

Here in Central Oregon, the life of a catering dog seems to be pretty happy indeed.

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