“There’s too many wolves in the forest!” The article screams for a cull in bold typeface.
Gods forbid a forest act like a forest. Save us from a world where nature is more than a hobby. Protect us from a life unspayed, breeding more life triumphantly fighting for its own place.
Damn these lives with their own claws, their own teeth, and their own reasons to run in different packs.
“John, it’s pretty simple.” An assigned Alpha sighs at me, “You can’t rock the boat, right or wrong, if you want to go anywhere. At some point you have to just get along.”
Quiet. Roll onto your stomach. Pant and wag. Wolves are pretty, wolves sing, when they start being wolves they need to be culled.
“You don’t want to be culled do you?” They toss treats on the ground in front of me.
I bare my teeth too much. I try not to, but my nature slips out. Able or not, I’m unwilling (as unwilling as we all should be) not to bark when I see a threat. I’m unwilling not to run with the pack I was born with. I’m unwilling to let my forests be someone’s playground populated by puppies. In our woods, you earn your time.
In anyone’s woods, you respect the things that live there. You listen to the singing in the boughs and the breathing in the wind and figure out how to approach. That’s learning, that’s appreciating, that’s cooperating.
“There’s too many wolves in the forest!”
Then get the hell out.