Let’s talk about a dog. You see, there’s a dog, a rabid dog. Even if this rabid dog is not really rabid and not really a dog, we will call it both things.

This dog always has a hard time interacting with humans. It comes from a time where the relationship between dogs and humans was not this well understood thing yet, even if there was already a thought of turning dogs into pets, this dog struggled with this evolving landscape of coexistence.

Being brought up within a tribe of humans that lived close by its den, they taught it all there was to teach a dog. To fetch, to play, to hunt, to eat, to sleep, to protect and to be close, when needed. It was average at those things. Living a good life, it had a lot of friends in the tribe and was well taken care of.

But the dog wasn’t happy. It had a tough time feeling loved. Usually, for dogs, it is enough to eat, sleep and be taken care of by its humans. It oddly didn’t felt good about itself and was left endlessly unsatisfied. Even if it was so well taken care of.

At times, it would go on hunger strikes for days at a time, starving itself, testing if any of its humans would dare feed it. But when they offered food, it would react wildly and act out on some hidden pain it couldn’t, being a dog, communicate well. But well, it was, afterall, just a dog.

Sometimes it would pretend to be hurt, being known to exaggerate the smallest of injuries. Dare you, step on its paws, and your ears would be sorry for the noise. No matter the barks, it would never let you tend its wounds. Still making sure, of course, to let you know how much its little paws were in oh so great pain. Its yelps and whimpers were known across the tribe.

Taken by the idea that it could be anyone’s dog and anyone should love it as their own dog. Its need for love was awkwardly endearing, and so, it didn’t take a lot to have itaround. The humans liked it for that, even if it was a weird, whinny, dog.

In all of its chaos. The dog’s true problem was that it wasn’t good at playing. It could play, don’t get me wrong, it had a lot of fun and memorable moments with its fellow humans and fellow dogs. So many good stories that could have been instead written about, but not today. Today we’re trying to see this dog for what it is, in truth.

You see, nowadays, the dog doesn’t live with its humans any more. And not for their choosing, I must add. The reason I mention the fact it wasn’t a “good time haver” its that this dog used to bite. And viciously I must add. All of its toys had deep bite marks. Lot’s of ’em. Some lighter, some harder, some shallow and some would leave lifelong scars. “He doesn’t know how to let bones go”, they said.

The dog would, from time to time, get jealous of the other dogs that it judged better loved. It didn’t take to the idea that the others formed stronger bonds. It would fight the other dogs, even getting hurt sometimes, only stopping to the intervention of a human, that would have to hit the dog until it stopped. And it always did, eventually. It responded to violence, not realizing why it was wrong, but sure to show respect at the face of pain.

The dog was indeed a rabid dog, there’s no hiding away from this fact. Why didn’t it ever stop? –Why don’t you just stop biting everything around you? You dog.– You might ask. The thing is, the dog believed it needed to be teeth-deep into whatever it was biting to make it count, make it official. But that’s not how the other dogs play. That’s not even how you eat. Biting life senseless doesn’t do anyone any good. But nonetheless the dog bit. It bit and didn’t chew. It bit when no one was seeing it. It bit and it didn’t mind what. As long as it was bitten everything else was sure. And he lived in his biting ways for all of his life.

But, one time, this dog snatched. What it had snatched is not important. But that it had snatched with his little eyes open. Something it never had done before. Maybe it was trying to pay attention to something else and threw a careless chomp at whatever was close in a fit of anger. But, in its moment of sighted clarity it finally saw. It saw that to the eyes of every living thing around itself, the humans, the dogs, the cats, the trees, the squirrels, the grass, they all saw it as it was, a dog.

What a shame. What a shameful thing it is, to be a dog. Not all dogs are like this, but it was. It was a rabid dog. No one said a word. It wasn’t the first time the dog acted like this. They didn’t expect the dog to act otherwise. “It is a rabid dog and this is what it does”. But with no great ceremony it released its grip and walked away. No one told it to go, no one asked it to stay. It just left, wretched, being sorry for what it was.

To be blunt, I don’t know where this story goes from here. It’s been 15 days since my 23rd birthday and I feel lost. 23 years of being alive and I just now realized that I don’t know how to let go. I don’t know where a dog goes after it’s tired of biting. When you let something go, do you need not to care about where the ends up? Where do I go? Can a dog be anything else? Does a dog need to break its leash so it can get somewhere with it’s life? It is such a fucking bad feeling. When someone lets you go.

I hear you say: Stop chewing the hard truths and swallow them already.

And to that, I answer: There’s truth in the taste of blood.

And even if I Move, and move on. I still have a lot to tell you about them rabid dogs.