Farmyard (part 1)
Malamute shuffled out of the bunkhouse scratching his doughy, left glute. He was a dogman with the body of a scrawny teenage boy, but with the thick furry head of a middle-aged Siberian Husky (growing up, he had been erroneously told by his handlers that his head belonged to the Malamute species, not Husky, hence the inaccurate moniker). His eyes were a loving, chocolaty brown and the fur which rippled softly in the wind was like snow and dirt.
After sniffing miles into the wind for breakfast things, Malamute took a few steps over to where the marigolds were and he pulled down his khaki slacks and took a shiny dump right there, quite solid, impressive even. Then he walked to the tool shed, lazily working his pants back up from his waddling ankles. He didn’t wipe his arse, not yet. He wouldn’t get around to that until later, when his boss came back and demanded he do it. For now, the farm was his and his alone, and he felt he shouldn’t fret over silly human conventions.
When he got the rake he went to the tomato garden and started raking the dirt there. Neither he, nor his employer, knew the first thing about farming, but early on the two of them agreed it was probably a good idea to rake the dirt (as long as there were no plants already there) at least twice a day. They believed this to have a similar function as stirring soup while it cooked. He was just about done with this when he heard the bulldozers. His big ears perked up and even hardened a little, and he two-legged galloped over to the pinewood fence and climbed halfway up to get a better look. There was trouble brewing on the horizon…