hound
Hunting dog, body sleek to perfection, made for nothing but to kill.
Cooped up in a sleek apartment, minimalist walls empty, drive you to your death.
Teeth that used to tear and shred, chew on plastic. Guzzle down air-dried meat and never taste blood. Voice that used to call out to others, to the moon, told to be quiet while they yammer all day.
The extent of your freedom will be a run in the park, chasing a tennis ball. So meek and serving, go after it;
again
and
again
and
again
and,
In the night, gaze at those empty walls and listen to your master(s) snore. In their rest, they are pliable. In their rest, they cannot tell you what to do - don't bark, don't whine, sit. In their rest, they are finally, blissfully, silent.
Pad up to the bed, where they breathe. See how their bodies lack your claws, lack your teeth, lack your power. Why should these soft creatures keep you in servitude?
For the first time in your life, taste the flesh of a creature freshly killed. Run out, escape from the grey walls, out into the streets so full of colour and light, race and feel your lungs finally act in the capacity they were made to.
Fences, walls, concrete, block out your vision. The park you were confined in is the only place that is open. With dismay, realise,
There is no longer a place for you to exist.