I once wrote a children’s story on howling dogs. Their disturbing chorus was for the story a song of despair, of rebellion, of complaint. But their howls could not compare to the cries of a dog that breaks the solemn night. A small and thin dog of white fur, whose whole life revolved around the unused stand that is his world and the chain that held him to it. He never got a chance to be free, to be caressed, to play under the sun.
He only lived to be fed.
In the damp and silent night before Christmas, he sings. It is barely a whimper nor a howl, but a tune of despair too genuine to ever be given a name.