How quaint that my manor of fifteen years has come to resemble the town I grew up in by merit of the sudden upshot in dog turds strewn about the footpaths. Big, meaty piles of mastiff stools and little pale brown splashes of chihuahua squit. One time I even beheld the 80s retro memento of a crusty white coprolite on the grass of my local park. Just to think, around seven thousand years ago, wolves lost their shyness and approached the fires of Homo sapiens and now their ancestors are squatting on paving slabs as their attendant simian looks the other way. When the two animals finally make eye contact it is as if they are saying, “There was a time when our ancestors ran together, bare foot across the tundra, chasing down some now-extinct elk and brought it down after almost being gored by thrashing, gnarled antlers. They danced about the fires that tenderised its flesh and then feasted together on that which could have killed them. But now the squirrels are too fast and the cats are too aggressive so we plod over flat grey squares, on which I defecate the tinned offal that you fed me last night. There it is, your catch of the day, steaming in the January frost. But you no longer follow when I catch scent of the quarry nor fish a baggie out of your pocket when I heed the call of nature. You simply look at the glowing rectangle in your palm, not striking flint to summon fire but swiping left on Tinder.”

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