Then dogs showed up. Snorting, scratching, dragging you out the door— to watch them piss on trees, to bark at the moon, to make you notice how alive dirt feels.
You stopped waiting for misery like a bus always late. You bought kibble instead. You learned joy is stupid, loud, slobber on your jeans, paw in your gut at 3 a.m.
People had left with doubts and debts mid-air. Dogs left nothing but the steady work of tomorrow’s day, and tomorrow’s after that.
You found yourself surrounded, by bodies that press close, by eyes that gaze steady, by choruses that ask nothing except that you stay.
And somewhere in the racket you heard it: The low hum of tribe.
