| 21. Marts 2022 |
| Pračets vietā kā vienmēr, jeb Dugins, as it is | 16:14 |
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Because Big Fido had a dream.
Big Fido was forging his band of strays into what the ignorant thought a wolf pack was. A kind of furry killing machine.
She looked around.
Big dogs, little dogs, fat dogs, skinny dogs. They were all watching, bright-eyed, as the poodle talked.
About Destiny.
About Discipline.
About the Natural Superiority of the Canine Race.
About Wolves. Only Big Fido's vision of wolves weren't wolves as Angua knew them. They were bigger, fiercer, wiser, the wolves of Big Fido's dream. They were Kings of the Forest, Terrors of the Night. They had names like Quickfang and Silverback. They were what every dog should aspire to.
Big Fido had approved of Angua. She looked very much like a wolf, he said.
They all listened, totally entranced, to a small dog who farted nervously while he talked and told them that the natural shape for a dog was a whole lot bigger. Angua would have laughed, were it not for the fact that she doubted very much if she'd get out of there alive.
And then she watched what happened to a small rat-like mongrel which was dragged into the centre of the circle by a couple of terriers and accused of fetching a stick. Not even wolves did that to other wolves. There was no code of wolf behaviour. There didn't need to be. Wolves didn't need rules about being wolves.
//Terry Pratchett, Men at Arms.
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