The worn dog walks the confines of the cement pad endlessly, hoping for his master to bring some scrap of food or a lick of water. He cowers at the sound of the snapping twig as you step forth into the yard, refusing to look you in your eyes. His head is down as you approach, and he whines as you kneel to pet him. Curious, you look upon his plight. You can see the remnants of the bars that used to be his cage, though long since worn away by time. He shies from your hand as you reach out to pet him and curls up around his empty bowl, too afraid to beg.
A mouse scurries across the lawn and the dog's eyes light with the fire of the predator that, deep down, they are. His teeth bared, he lunges toward the bars and then stops as if struck. The dog is starving but the mouse, now alerted to the danger, scurries off as the dog watches on looking from you to the mouse, waiting for you to go catch the mouse or perhaps to offer permission to hunt.
You are the The Dog, and you refuse to be free.
Our Religion is Resistance.