It was a dreary day, typical for early March. The mid-day air was cool and damp; the sky was full of gray clouds. Neither the cold nor the wind seemed to bother Pudge. His coat was long and thick, and the exact color of peanut butter fudge—unusual for a dog of Husky descent. His owner’s young daughter noticed the resemblance of the puppy’s color to that of her favorite food and suggested the name Pudge.
Pudge, laying in his kennel atop a knoll, surveyed the yards and alleyway below as he did every day. From this vantage point he could see the life around him. He watched cats slink by on soundless paws. He watched rabbits venture out of their hiding places in the hedge rows to nibble on the lush grass. Songbirds often perched in the nearby branches and chattered noisily among themselves. Pudge didn’t mind the birds; he was grateful for the company.
Occasionally, another dog would venture along the alley. Sometimes the dog would catch Pudge’s scent, then with nose high in the air, look about to find its source, only to see Pudge staring blankly back. Once eye contact was made, the traveler would bark "Woof!," then resume its trek along the alley. Pudge never took offense to these strangers’ outbursts.
These dogs were curiosities to Pudge. He wondered where they went and where they came from. Why aren’t they in their kennels? What must it be like to walk in a straight line for more than six feet? How nice it must be to see the world clearly without the hindrance of chain links.
It was late afternoon now. Pudge often spent this time of the day napping and trying to remember back to when he was a pup, to a time before the kennel, but he never remembered. He was four-years old now, the memories of puppyhood had faded away. Life in the kennel was the only life he knew. He was content most of the time. The light of day and the life around him reassured him that, although he was confined, he wasn’t alone.
The dark of night was more difficult. He felt very alone then. Clear nights lit by a full moon were especially difficult. The moon stirred strange feelings in him. It appeared as a beacon of light pointing the way to some far away place, familiar to Pudge, yet unfamiliar. If Pudge starred at the moon long enough, he could see the place, smell it, feel it. A place where dogs like Pudge lived together, outside, beyond the confines of a kennel. Pudge didn’t know the dogs, but he felt a kinship to them, like brothers and sisters. He saw them clearly; he heard them panting as they ran together. And he felt something he could feel at no other time: He felt the oneness of the pack, the sense of belonging. And this made him lonely. Pudge longed to be free and run with the pack more than anything. In frustration, Pudge would point his nose toward the beacon and call out to the pack. A long howl, then listen for a response, but his calls were never answered. On some nights Pudge would howl many times until frustration and fatigue overtook him, lulling him into dream-filled sleep.
Pudge looked skyward. The day was ending. The sun was already hiding behind the trees, and the clouds were thickening in the gathering darkness. There would be no moon tonight, no beacon of light, only the quiet solitude of the kennel.