What do you need elections for, anyway? Since when do we choose our masters? During elections, we're always presented with pre-selected, trained, and neutered candidates, each with a shiny coat and a strict collar with spikes turned inward. Any of them can be pulled back — whether they're opposition candidates or those in power. Any of them can be commanded "Heel!", "Stay!", or "Attack!".

The ritual of parliamentary elections is not meaningless. It is meant to humiliate both the voter and the elected, to show everyone who is in charge here. Everyone is on a leash. Some can't get elected without permission, others can't elect anyone. No barking allowed. Every five years, the subordinates need to be reminded of what they were taught in the dog park.

But the masters still feel that their power needs justification, validation, legitimization. At first, it was such that they let us off the leash and allowed us to run around, and for that, we were supposed to keep quiet. Then they put us back on the leash, but at least they scraped leftovers from their table into our bowls. Then they allowed us to blow off steam by attacking dummies and instructors in padded jackets. Now there's nothing left; we can only run along the steel wire fence, our stomachs growling, the yard littered with tufts of cotton and filth, and in the eyes of the trained, there seems to be a glimmer of understanding that the dummies are not to blame.

Once, it seemed to us that they were the voice of our aspirations. Yes, we didn't choose them, but they took us for walks in the forest, threw us sticks, allowed us to rub against their boots, and patted us on the withers. But for a long time now, no one comes out into our yard, and they quickly dash past the gate, along paths we can't reach because of the short chain. They're afraid we'll snap at them.

Behind closed doors, there's the smell of food; the feast continues, but we, mangy, with matted fur, reeking of dog, now evoke only cautious disgust from our masters — it doesn't occur to them to throw us a bone. Watching us go wild, they ask themselves why they took us from the kennel in the first place. They think it was them who took us. Have we gone mad? Were we properly vaccinated against rabies? Ah, they shouldn't have taken us at all, should have drowned us as puppies in a bucket of water with a lid on top.

The feast continues. Three-hundred-kilogram fatties, stuck at the table, rake in stale and dried-out dishes with their hands, shove them into their mouths, swallow wearily, burp exhaustedly, but they can't, they can't stop, even though their guts are already clogged and bursting, their fat sides splitting open, undigested food spilling out, yet they keep raking and raking, raking and raking and swallowing unchewed.

They'd like to step outside, get some fresh air — but outside, there's barking and snarling. Maybe they'd like to visit the neighbors, but they've quarreled with them, having sicced dogs on them and thrown filth over the fence.

There are still ways to keep us in check. Change the terms of the social contract. If the strict collar doesn't bring us to our senses, there's the whip, or a boot to the belly. They tried it in the summer — and barely managed to pull their hand back in time. They slipped on piles, almost fell into the mud with their whole bulk. Now they approach the window, watching us howl and spin, clanging our chain, chasing our own tails, and they try to whistle to us with their fat lips. Affectionately and playfully. We have a memory, after all, and we used to be very happy at the sound of a whistle. But now it sounds completely false, and the strict collar has worn our fur down to the skin.

They'll soon promise us a walk and a bone. But we no longer want a walk; it's too late for that, we've already soiled ourselves. We need to break free from the chain. We might still think that we'll run away from the bad masters — and switch to the good ones. But it seems, just a little longer, and we'll feel that we can do without masters altogether. After all, wolves live, don't they?