Hounds

A slender pale hound lies curled in the corner, chin on its paws, dreaming by a fire that burned out long ago. Above it the old wolf is still running: jaws snapping, long legs flung wide, a frenzy of fang and sinew stitched into a single howl. The dog came to us first, before the sheep, before the plough, and walked beside us into everything that followed. On our farm in Waihī it was a shadow at the heel and a friend at the gate. Somewhere beneath the loyalty the wolf still turns in its sleep. There were Amber, Zach, and Speckles.