Call me Dog. Not dog with a small d. I’m not a dam’ poodle. I’m Dog. Big D Dog. Yeah, sure. I know. I’ve been called lots of other things by your people. Coyote. Brush wolf. Pest. Varmint. But never mind all that, OK? Just call me Dog. That’s not my real name, understand? You’ll never know my real name. No human ever has. None ever will. But you need a name for me, just the same, and Dog’ll do.

Mighty fine evening, ain’t it? What you’d call a huntin’ moon. But then, every moon’s a huntin’ moon to me and the boyz. We’re hunters. It’s what we do. Our job description. Not that we’ll ever turn down a gift. Road-kill. Berries in season. Even windfall apples. But around here, in these hills, winter and summer, we live mostly on whitetail deer and hare.

Names. Back to names for a minute. Your scientists call me Canis latrans. Very important sounding, ain’t it? Like most names stolen from dead languages, I suppose. But what’s it mean? Barking dog. Not so impressive. And misleading. Sorta makes you think I’m the same as a poodle. But the scientists gave the poodle a different double-barrel name, didn’t they? So we must be different, right? And the wolf—what about the wolf? He’s got a different name, too. That’s three different names in all: one for me, another for the poodle, and a third for the wolf. Well, OK, I’m not a poodle. The scientists are right about that. There’s only one Dog. But you take your poodle and your wolf, and then you take me and the boyz, and you know what? We’re all dogs! All one big family, if you get my meaning.…Read more…

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