towns. Dogs unleashed were beasts, natural that
they be destroyed. But you were not destroyed. You were too clever. Sometimes you
retreated into the mountains, sometimes you set upon the towns. You never rested for
long. Because to do so was dangerous. Because you felt how dangerous it could be.
Though you had no knowledge of this—of course you didn’t—the blood that coursed through
your father’s veins was the blood of a victor. You were descended from a long line
of Hokkaido dogs who kept to this side of the line. Survivors. For thousands of years,
the Ainu, the natives of Hokkaido, had used your ancestors to hunt large game. Your
ancestors were the hunters. Hokkaido dogs who fought with bears and lived . These were your ancestors. Hokkaido dogs who brought down mighty deer. These were
your ancestors. Every one of them survived the process of unnatural selection that
hunting became. They had made it, they abided on this side of the line. And so you
understood. You understood what it was to be on the side of the hunters, and you made
sense of it all. You could almost tell what people were going to do before they did
it. There was no way they would ever eliminate you.
Every bullet the rifles fired was another wasted bullet.
IDIOTS , you said. And you told the pack you led, WE WILL NOT BE CAUGHT .
WE WILL KEEP RUNNING .
Yes, you kept running. You “wild dogs” ran and ran, dashed ahead the way you had in
Far North Alaska, over the land, over the fields of snow, over the ice floes. Minneapolis
was far behind you now. You roamed through Minnesota, but you did not go north. The
situation—their attempts to eradicate you, and your evasions—led you in an altogether
different direction. You headed south. Yes, south. Do you grasp what that means? You,
Ice, and you, former sled dogs, members of Ice’s pack, you were banished from the
land of your birth, sent far, far to the south, and now, of necessity, you moved further
south.
Do you understand what that means? It means this: destiny.
The pack had swelled to a few dozen. A pack of monsters, “wild dogs,” growing ever
more mongrelized, following the dictates of Ice’s wisdom, her instinct, obeying the
queen as they ran up and down, hither and yon, across a region that spanned four states,
southern Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, and Illinois.
You galloped.
You lived. You ran like lightning. You weren’t going to die.
But in America, in 1957, the gun barrels were always there, tracking you.
Ice ran. Sumer did not. Sumer busied herself caring for her children in a clean and
spacious cage that had been specially made for her. She moved lethargically, offering
her pups her teats. She helped her newborns eliminate their waste. She was dignified,
relaxed. She had the majesty of an earth goddess, the confident glow that was the
sign of her productivity, her fertility. And this was the perfect environment for
raising her pups, it was kept utterly clean, uncontaminated, and every last one of
her children was pure as well. Perfect German shepherds, every one.
In the world Sumer inhabited, of course, mongrels were abhorred.
There was no reason, in its value system, for a mongrel to be born.
You, Sumer, do not run. You are waited upon. The owner of the kennel you live in—its
owner as well as yours—lavishes attention upon you because you are the mother of her
future champions. She places enormous value in your existence. You are cared for.
You care for your children, and the woman who ought to be your master but is instead
your breeder and handler, she cares for you.
Because you give birth to a beautiful elite.
Because you give birth to dogs of the highest quality, a second generation that is
gorgeous above all else, possessed from birth of the qualities necessary to meet even
the most stringent dog show standards and to remain unfazed by the judges’ stern,
appraising gazes.
The puppies milled
they be destroyed. But you were not destroyed. You were too clever. Sometimes you
retreated into the mountains, sometimes you set upon the towns. You never rested for
long. Because to do so was dangerous. Because you felt how dangerous it could be.
Though you had no knowledge of this—of course you didn’t—the blood that coursed through
your father’s veins was the blood of a victor. You were descended from a long line
of Hokkaido dogs who kept to this side of the line. Survivors. For thousands of years,
the Ainu, the natives of Hokkaido, had used your ancestors to hunt large game. Your
ancestors were the hunters. Hokkaido dogs who fought with bears and lived . These were your ancestors. Hokkaido dogs who brought down mighty deer. These were
your ancestors. Every one of them survived the process of unnatural selection that
hunting became. They had made it, they abided on this side of the line. And so you
understood. You understood what it was to be on the side of the hunters, and you made
sense of it all. You could almost tell what people were going to do before they did
it. There was no way they would ever eliminate you.
Every bullet the rifles fired was another wasted bullet.
IDIOTS , you said. And you told the pack you led, WE WILL NOT BE CAUGHT .
WE WILL KEEP RUNNING .
Yes, you kept running. You “wild dogs” ran and ran, dashed ahead the way you had in
Far North Alaska, over the land, over the fields of snow, over the ice floes. Minneapolis
was far behind you now. You roamed through Minnesota, but you did not go north. The
situation—their attempts to eradicate you, and your evasions—led you in an altogether
different direction. You headed south. Yes, south. Do you grasp what that means? You,
Ice, and you, former sled dogs, members of Ice’s pack, you were banished from the
land of your birth, sent far, far to the south, and now, of necessity, you moved further
south.
Do you understand what that means? It means this: destiny.
The pack had swelled to a few dozen. A pack of monsters, “wild dogs,” growing ever
more mongrelized, following the dictates of Ice’s wisdom, her instinct, obeying the
queen as they ran up and down, hither and yon, across a region that spanned four states,
southern Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, and Illinois.
You galloped.
You lived. You ran like lightning. You weren’t going to die.
But in America, in 1957, the gun barrels were always there, tracking you.
Ice ran. Sumer did not. Sumer busied herself caring for her children in a clean and
spacious cage that had been specially made for her. She moved lethargically, offering
her pups her teats. She helped her newborns eliminate their waste. She was dignified,
relaxed. She had the majesty of an earth goddess, the confident glow that was the
sign of her productivity, her fertility. And this was the perfect environment for
raising her pups, it was kept utterly clean, uncontaminated, and every last one of
her children was pure as well. Perfect German shepherds, every one.
In the world Sumer inhabited, of course, mongrels were abhorred.
There was no reason, in its value system, for a mongrel to be born.
You, Sumer, do not run. You are waited upon. The owner of the kennel you live in—its
owner as well as yours—lavishes attention upon you because you are the mother of her
future champions. She places enormous value in your existence. You are cared for.
You care for your children, and the woman who ought to be your master but is instead
your breeder and handler, she cares for you.
Because you give birth to a beautiful elite.
Because you give birth to dogs of the highest quality, a second generation that is
gorgeous above all else, possessed from birth of the qualities necessary to meet even
the most stringent dog show standards and to remain unfazed by the judges’ stern,
appraising gazes.
The puppies milled
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