When you find them, you are found.

You live in comfort among the humans.
Eat the food the humans provide.
Sleep at the foot of the humans' bed.
Gnaw and squeak the toys the humans throw.
Accept the caresses of the humans' hands.
Play along with the humans' arbitrary commands: sit, stay, roll over.

It doesn't take much to make a dog happy.
A treat,
a pat,
a "good boy,"
a ray of sunlight through the window.

A ride in the car, head out the side, wind whooshing back your ears.

Suddenly, a door opens and
you leap down into unfamiliar grass, fresh and crisp.
The humans loose your restraints with a click and a clang.
And for the first time, you look around and see your own kind.
Quadrupedal, fuzzy, and fluffy mirror images,
big and small versions of you.

You run.
You've run before, but it's never been like this.
Front legs, back legs pumping
​alongside other front and back legs,
all with the same purpose,
which is just to run.
Alongside a pack.
In a pack.

They love you, the humans.
You love them, you do.
But you will never understand each other.
They can get down on all fours
but they'll never know what it is to live there.
They can mimic your whine
but they'll never speak your language.
They can do a thing they think is running,
but they'll never run the way you run.

You run,
and you know now that there is such a thing as an equal.
Claws digging in the dust and dirt
in rhythm with the claws beside.
You run,
mouth open, tongue flapping. 
And the wind that whooshes back your ears is a new wind.