Learning to Fall: escape. Tribble had been thinking about it for days, insofar as he could think outside of eat, drink, sleep, run and shit. Sleeping inside a closet with his master's little friend; eating pizza crusts and cheeseburgers constipated him as it made him drool and beg for more.
Trips outside into the streets, hunting for even the smallest patch of grass or dirt where he could poop became more and more difficult. The "men" who "ruled" the house weren't like men Tribble knew. These men were more like females, and although they frequently came into the house with men who acted like the real thing, and they rutted together in smelly piles, also not right somehow, the poor dog longed to be told firmly what to do, where to sit, not to even think about drinking out of the toilet.
Tribble found himself looking at the door more than ever. He couldn't remember back when he was a puppy and did the same, before N.B. and his dad trained that natural wanderlust out of him with a combination of determined love and dog biscuits, but here it was. The instinct to run. To flee. Fight or flight. Fight didn't seem like an option: Tribble had his ass kicked early on by neighborhood kittens and a poodle, and since then, became more adept at running and cowering than snapping and gnashing.
Each time the door opened, each time he saw daylight, Tribble tested his leash, tested the grip of the skinny boy holding him, determined to bolt unless, of course, there was a biscuit involved.