“Do you think it can ever be?” he asks me softly. “Bred out of a creature?” “The wild?” I reach to pat the dog and my fingers come very close to his. I want to touch him so badly I could combust. “It happened to us, I think,” I murmur. “Most days I think we couldn’t be farther from it, that it was slowly bred from us until we became more like machines than animals.” “And the other days?” he asks. “On the other days,” I say slowly, “I think I will go mad with the wildness.”
