I won’t give my dog a cooked bone. At family gatherings, when such a thing is waved in his direction, I will raise the palm of my hand to close off this avenue of pleasure. The dog’s disappointment will be hard to bear, as will the scorn of the relatives who will say something along the lines of, “Ah rubbish. Look at all the strays you see fending for themselves on beaches abroad and whatnot! They get thrown all sorts of scraps and they’re just fine!”
This is right and wrong. But mainly wrong. Yes, the dogs you see might be doing OK, but they’re the survivors, the most resilient of their litters. We don’t see those who didn’t make it, so it’s only the survivors’ tales that are told; the less fortunate are forgotten. The narrative of resilience is skewed, as we only tend to hear one side of it.
