"Once Were Wolves"

Sushi was a Pomeranian who hated himself. His caregivers would coddle and pamper him, never suspecting he knew of such discontent. But Sushi knew.

He knew full well that he was too small a creature in too small a world. He walked on floors too soft or too smooth, in lavish spaces, bright with too many smells.

He knew what was animal. He sensed it outside, on the birds and the squirrels, as he rode in wheeled strollers, or in soft designer shoulder bags, no different to him than cages. Animals were not meant to ride anything. Animals were meant to run, and stalk, and climb, but Sushi was different. His legs were short, to fit in cages. His jaws were small, to eat from bowls. He did not sense animal-ness on himself. And he hated this.

Sometimes allowed to walk and explore, he would greet other dogs. Sometimes they were like him, small, out-of-place creatures, and he would circle and sniff them and search for kindred, for pain like his own. But he had no language for longings like this, only fleeting gestures and small exclamations.

But other dogs were different. They were larger, they were right with nature, if only in certain pieces. A powerful leg, a fearsome jaw, ears and noses for searching and hunting. They were primal, they were animal, they were everything that Sushi should have been.

You should be my alpha, not the too-tall caregivers, he would think. You should be my brother, or my mate, or my pack. And sometimes they would ignore him, and move along. But other times they would answer back, with eyes and ears and tail and voice. They saw their sameness. It was faded and cheated through generations, but they saw it.

Yes, they would reply to the too-small Pomeranian, I see you, and I know you, and once, we were wolves. And for a moment, before the tethers pulled his kin away, Sushi would know he was animal.