There’s no husbandry in heaven, the animals sequestered beyond great fences that keep the people in; the stars blink their incomprehension and flare and drop to see it but the husbandry on earth continues as if animals and people were the same; now we have them on our beds and beneath the table where scraps fall to jowls and tethered in our yards while children swing and snapshots show their snouts or mad red eyes. An ambassador-dog two doors down barks from its laundry prison until its saviour-jailer comes to free it each evening. Another dog attack was in the news; a little girl again her face torn like a bitten peach, her parents’ faces drawn with grief and disbelief. My ambassador dog cried out that very day: I’d rather be dead, it said, than live this way. What it says comes from the suburban wilderness of jungled streets and houses and fences weather-grey. Its voice is the voice its ancestors had when husbandry was just a vague idea wrought in a dull brain.