Fear Urged Him To Go Back, But

This Expression Of Abandon And Surrender, Of Absolute Trust, He Reserved For The Master Alone.

A Good Joke Will Sell Quicker Than A Good Poem, And, Measured In Sweat And Blood, Will Bring Better Remuneration.

And Not Only Did He Learn By Experience, But Instincts Long Dead Became Alive Again. The Domesticated Generations Fell From Him. In Vague Ways He Remembered Back To The Youth Of The Breed, To The Time The Wild Dogs Ranged In Packs Through The Primeval Forest And Killed Their Meat As They Ran It Down.

He Became Quicker Of Movement Than The Other Dogs, Swifter Of Foot, Craftier, Deadlier, More Lithe, More Lean With Ironlike Muscle And Sinew, More Enduring, More Cruel More Ferocious, And More Intelligent. He Had To Become All These Things, Else He Would Not Have Held His Own Nor Survived The Hostile Environment In Which He Found Himself.

Where Others Have Hearts, He Carries A Tumor Of Rotten Principles.