And slowly, the hounds forgot.
Forgot the scent of blood,
of running free through the wild,
of their lineage from the proud wolves.
over the choicest morsels handed down to them
and their eyes gleamed on the sight
of bowls with their names written on them.
No longer would they serenade the moon,
no longer would they know the wild inside.
But they would run gleefully
if they hear you say '"Fetch".