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January 22, 2012

Shunned. Nipped from the pack. Out.

My head hung; my tail tucked. ("Sinner!") A hundred who’s a good boys ride me in a gantlet of slick snouts, bared canines, flattened ears, barrel chests. A hundred collared throats growl me for dead, for cat.

Here a pup runs out from from the line, rudely yaps my paws, pisses, and is barked back inside. 

...

A dream, my first night twitching in the mossy, whining, new moon copse:

"The apartment? Oh, it's fine. Plenty of rug, ample couch. Warm by the stove, and there's food. But they took me to the vet, see..."