The pack leaders summon me by what they call my "given name", Toko. It is a good name, but the other, younger pack members, closer to me in rank and authority have taken to calling me "Yjorba". They have said "Toko" is my white slave name. I am indeed a white dog, but I am no slave.
They tell me I was selectively bred for athleticism. I am a mountain poodle. I am a contributing pack member. I have climbed the Suicide Peaks and many other unnamed mountains in the Chugach mountain range. I run in circles around my pack to keep them safe. I am faster, stronger, and more agile than they. I catch them ptarmigan, which are known as masters of disguise. I have treed black bears. I have chased off moose. I have decimated small packs of groundhogs for sport, and yet the non-pack members still call me "cute little puppy". I must prove myself. I must win the admiration--nay, the respect--of those who have not yet seen my physical prowess. But how can I when I am thwarted by these nefarious threats to my home and safety? Every day the mailman tromps up the steps to the front door, X-tra Tuff brand boots falling heavily on the wooden planks, alerting his arrival. I hear the scrape of the metal lid rise, and I know this is his way of asserting himself. This is his equivalent of peeing on the side of the house. Do you not know who I am? Do you not know what I have done? I bark and bark and bark, I beg the pack leaders to allow me the opportunity to burst though the front door and show this recurring nightmare of a man just how important I am. How can they allow this injustice? How can they be so cavalier about this stranger with his thick coat and his silly hat and his clompy, stompy boots to infringing upon OUR territory? It is maddening, and with each day I grow anxious in anticipation.
I daydream endlessly about the sweet victory of conquest. I send random warning barks in the direction of the door, as if to say, "I know you're there, lurking the shadows, waiting..."
My only consolation is the steady knowledge that the other neighborhood canines despise him as much as I do. He is our common enemy, a shared rage that brings us closer as a species, though no less close as friends. They do not validate my existence as much as they ought to. Suspicious glances are offered and occasionally ambiguously toned barks. (Is it curiosity? Friendship? Aggression? Only time could tell, if only the pack let me off my leash.) Sometimes I fantasize about how their rumps smell. Would they be fun to play with? Maybe, but for now I must keep up appearances... I must not seem too eager to fraternize with the enemy, if that is indeed what they turn out to be. After all, my pack is the only social group I can belong to fully and completely.
But some day... some day I will prove myself, and I will no longer be, "small dog of my affections," "tiniest one," or any of the other epithets offered to me. Some day, I will be "winsome pooch," "handsome and valiant protector of the realm," or "top notch security poodle".
And when that day comes, I shall finally feel complete.