Back home, digging into the archives once again. While the old dog snores nearby.
He’s heavily medicated and momentarily just fine.
My myth of the wild dog begins in 1987.
When I read an account of a downhill racer who had no regard for his life or his limbs nor the Law of Gravity.
His rivals named him The Wild Dog after a fabled folktale.
Which went something like this…
The dog who is captured
who knows the weight of chains around his neck,
when that dog escapes
there is none in the forest
more determined to remain free
none more fierce –
that dog is truly wild.
And I thought,
Oh, hell yeah.