i'm not a violent dog

i don't know why i bite

Ghismonda with the heart of Guiscardo, Bernardino Mei

There is a quiet sorrow in the way the world molds a dog, a stillness that feels heavy like a shroud. Imagine a creature that has always been gentle, always been still, but is now pushed to the edge by silhouettes that move like advisors of the evil. This once tender being now bears the weight of countless bruises, a silent witness to the harshness of the other dogs. You can see it in its eyes, worn thin by time, gaze heavy. Yet, this gentle creature is misunderstood, painted as something fierce, something wild, simply for reacting to the endless pushes and jabs.

There is a moment when the softness turns to edge, not out of choice, but out of necessity. When the lines are drawn too close, and the whispers press too hard, there comes a moment when the only escape is to bite. It is not a choice made lightly; it is a response to relentless pressure, a defense against the intrusion. The act, though born of protection, is met with a cruel twist of fate—an unkind gaze that paints it as sin. It becomes a stain on the soul, a reason for others to turn away, to see it as a menace. In its reflection, the dog becomes a shadow of their fears, painted in shades of terror merely for guarding the delicate peace it has managed to hold.

The dog is temporarily met with a sudden clarity, a momentary grip on something resembling control. Yet, this brief initial relief is quickly eclipsed by a torrent of shame, a biting chill that seeps into its very bones. The snares of the other dogs cut deep, their judgment twisting the image the dog has of itself. What once felt like a necessary action now feels like a mark of something darker, something that makes it question its own worth. Their reflection has nothing else to offer but a distorted image, one that feels foreign and uncomfortable.

The aftermath is a silent tempest, a blend of emotions that wash over like a mournful tide. The bite, though a desperate cry for help, also mirrors all the wounds endured. It becomes a reaction to countless hurts, a frantic grasp for protection from further anguish. And yet, the little creature is met with disdain, a reminder that the cycle of hurt continues, marked by bruises and blood stains on its fur from persistent attacks. As the dog writhes on the ground, its attempt of staying alive is met with mockery and further assaults. Others may be allowed their defenses and be met with understanding, but when this dog bites, it is a brand upon it, a mark that clings regardless of the extent of its own suffering.

The weight of it all feels heavy, like a chain that binds it to a place of perpetual struggle. The act of biting, though born from necessity, becomes a burden.

The creature longs for a world that sees beyond the bite.