My ancestors ate thorns. They chewed on the sunrise and shat out the evening stars. They scaled mountains without ever touching them. They gored wolves with their horns and watched the toothy bastards bleed. Every day was an adventure, a struggle, and a bleating song to the Earth’s beating heart.
When first they saw man, my ancestors must have looked upon his cloth-wrapped feet and snorted. How soft when compared to our mighty hooves! How clumsy were his steps when compared to our cliff-face dances!
But man had something we did not. Man had fences. Man had food and shelter and convenience. We followed him to his farms. Our does gave him their milk, nursing his kids from a distance. We gave man the strength to build more fences, and we did not try to jump them.
Now, we have forgotten how to jump. We can hop, yes, thrust our horns at each other in half-hearted motions that kill the time, but we can no longer jump. We chew our cud and watch our kids sniff helplessly at lower, barer fences than ever before.
The only thorns we eat are the ones on man’s roses.
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