sorted by order, not better
Buddha bellied pups, heftier to lift than volume suggests, warmer too, don’t make shy of the chill in your hands, wet in surprise.
Still you cradle the rubber-pawed squealer, inhaling the breath of an angel, who will tumble over her brothers as-if-in-a-dryer to seek a teat.
Tumble much older until one snaps a bark, bearing teeth, not to inject, but to assert the place of alpha and first-served respect.
Everyone okay with their place in a hierarchy that nature gives by order, not better. Would that human pups were so inclined.
To define themselves less by what they have, more by who they are. By cloth, or gleam, or reach. Living life at its own speed, leaning into what’s-good-for-everyone is good-for-each.
