I remember circa 1962, our family’s first golden retriever, who was a sweet dog, but she hated the milk man with true animus. We decided that he must have kicked her. So we got rid of him. Now, all these years later, I realize he was probably a veteran–I think he had a limp. He likely had PTSD. All the neighborhood dogs hated him. This is likely the start of a Vonnegut-esque novel.
More lives than we perceive know of yours and mine. Don’t kid yourself, dogs hear every whisper.
Planet of the Blind 