"Are we only beautiful when we are born blue, double-coated and in the cold?" There's a stunning beauty in the eyes of ancestors who don't shout. Voice boxes, a bit too small for sights swallowed through teary eyes. Relegation to the Edge of bustling dining halls, Where everyone but us gets a seat. Patient dogs dream of bones from the master's table. We dream of the meat we caught with our teeth. We've been patient dogs for far too long. I walk through dense forests Hunter behind me, waiting to rip my rat out my mouth. Feed his priced blue cat on the fat meat he peels off it Toss me a couple measly bones I dream of chase with the cat's blood, flooding my mouth.