The Dog

Alone, the dog outrides the flock, warning away the terrors of night. He sees the cheery glow of the shepherds’ fire, murmured talk and quiet laughter float past him softly on the chill autumn breeze. He longs to sit with them beside the light, sharing avidly (tongue lolling, slyly smiling) in their good-natured jokes but that is not his place: He is a dog and no man and his place is outside in the dark, a sentinel. He sees the sleeping flock, pressed body to body to hold their warmth, and longs to lie in their midst as one of them, dreaming sheeply dreams, but that is not his place: He is a dog and no sheep and must remain awake outside to guide strays back to the fold. The flock stirs anxiously and bleats. His ears prick, he hears it too, the tugging untamed howl of wild wolves in the night. The ancient wolf in him longs to melt into the forest, romping with them on their feral haunts, but that is not his place either: He is a dog and no wolf and his place is beside the flock.