Wednesday, February 3, 2010
3rd February, 1911 (part two)
6PM. I cannot believe I slept for nine hours. My tent-mates are still slumbering.
Two of Meare's white dogs have been trained to attack strangers, which is most inconvenient. I was almost taken down today.
Hunger and fear are the only realities in a dog's life: an empty stomach makes a fierce dog. There is something almost alarming in the sudden fierce display of natural instinct in a tame creature. Instinct becomes a blind, unreasoning, relentless passion. It is as well one is resigned to the sacrifice of animal life in the effort to advance such human projects as this.
Of course, one feels more easily disposed to slaughter when one has been on the receiving end of those teeth.
My companions stir: I must away.