Each fibre of fur is a strand of awareness. Each press of paw pad on the earth a moment of contact. We gather under the full moon in a sacred geometry as aligned with the astronomical expanses as any stone circle. The finely tuned notes of this howling symphony transmit the Earth’s wisdom to the stars.

A litter of freshly whelped cubs is both a miracle and a liability. We watch them each diligently, perhaps obsessively.

At the first sign of possession, a decision must be made. By what might the youngster be possessed? Can such possession be outgrown?

We’re on guard for clear signs the taint is growing stronger. Possession becomes apparent in the grammar of the cub’s eyes as he stares at the mother. ‘Mine,’ he thinks. He notes a unique fleck of white below the dam’s chin. ‘Hers.’

Possession destroys unity and must be stopped before it can grow. A merciful killing is sometimes required. Such measures pain us, though, and howls become mourning songs.

If we are travelling near a place where people live, we’ll sometimes deposit the cub on the threshold of a human dwelling. We stay distant, waiting for the cub’s new owners to discover it there, their miracle puppy, their adorable stray.

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Would you like to know more about this story? I discuss it in Episode 79 of Structured Visions. Subscribe on Apple podcasts, Spotify or wherever you like to listen.