So here are good pictures of my children. 
Which made me think of an old poem. I still like this poem--it's different from the kind of thing I usually write.
The Dog Poem
Yes, you have shaped us. Bred us down, up
Dark, light, lean, round, sleek, full.
Like tools to a purpose we have been formed
As you form and shape and build with hands that flex and hold.
Were we somehow more malleable, more honeable?
Our DNA more willing?
But what you do not know is that under these customized hides,
We are the first dogs, slipping high through tall grass,
Short fur, the color of the Savannah,
Tails, curved as totems, upright ears that rotate 180 degrees,
Gleaming, unshadowed eyes, beneath smooth brows,
Pointed muzzles, slim as the prow of your ships
As an arrow, as a gun.
A machine of the senses.
We scent you and we are still in our contemplation.
The pleasure of wind running through our fur the only motion.
We scent you, dark and matted , tongues unsuited for grooming,
In stolen skins. They are not ours, and we are not afraid.
We are not Uncle Wolf. We are not Cousin Hyena.
We hunger for something more than just to jostle and steal.
We see you and you say, "Come! Let me shape you.
And in return, I will keep you from the scavenging.
I will give you warmth and light in the darkness, and company."
We move into your scent and press our muzzles into your
Outstretched hand.
Yes, you have shaped us. Bred us down, up
Dark, light, lean, round, sleek, full.
Like tools to a purpose we have been formed
As you form and shape and build with hands that flex and hold.
Were we somehow more malleable, more honeable?
Our DNA more willing?
But what you do not know is that under these customized hides,
We are the first dogs, slipping high through tall grass,
Short fur, the color of the Savannah,
Tails, curved as totems, upright ears that rotate 180 degrees,
Gleaming, unshadowed eyes, beneath smooth brows,
Pointed muzzles, slim as the prow of your ships
As an arrow, as a gun.
A machine of the senses.
We scent you and we are still in our contemplation.
The pleasure of wind running through our fur the only motion.
We scent you, dark and matted , tongues unsuited for grooming,
In stolen skins. They are not ours, and we are not afraid.
We are not Uncle Wolf. We are not Cousin Hyena.
We hunger for something more than just to jostle and steal.
We see you and you say, "Come! Let me shape you.
And in return, I will keep you from the scavenging.
I will give you warmth and light in the darkness, and company."
We move into your scent and press our muzzles into your
Outstretched hand.
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