My littermates and I played in the grass, jumping and snapping our teeth in a futile game to catch a fluttering moth. We roll in the mud, blissfully unaware. In the evening we go home to our parents, who nuzzle us before curling up together in a soft hay bed, falling into a gentle slumber. 
I got older, listening to the barn animals.  
The pigs talk proudly about our success against the coyotes in the forest, loudly proclaiming the won matches in this game they have hosted. The dogs of the ranch gather around. The horses neigh in applause, the other animals joining in. The biggest pig in the sty goes on about how important the game is, the crucial property of it all. The pig talks about the pride, the honor, this brings. You'll be a better dog when you come back, they hollered. "I want to play!" I exclaim, excited and enticed by the rowdy claims of triumph. The pig smiles at me, a cheeky grin. The other dogs join in, barking and yipping about participating.  
An old hound leads us to the far edge of the ranch, worn legs driving him forward. We join the other dogs, chatting together loudly while standing in line. The old dog teaches us the rules of the game, his old voice rasp with age. He tells us the game is played with sticks. Each dog gets a stick, so do the coyotes. The way to win is by tapping the coyote with the stick first. If you get tapped you must run back to your side. The old dog turns his head to the forest, the looming trees towering behind us. He looks down for just a moment, but looks back at us. His weary eyes look almost saddened. 
The next day the last participants come back. They prance pridefully, heads held high. Their sticks and muzzles caked in mud, they march forward. Closer to the back, their heads hang lower. At the end are the injured, likely from falling or over-exertion. A leg lame, they limp behind. The line presses forward to the barn, ready for the praise of the others for their efforts. I don't look at the ones who fall behind.  
Today's the day. The pig hobbles out of the barn, personally greeting us. "Now you are all ready! Rejoice!" The pig bellows, rallying the yips and howls from the dogs. I join in, ecstatic for what is to come. The pig nods his head, the old hound bows his head before barking loudly to call attention. He starts walking to the fence, nudging aside the brittle boards. "Onwards!" The pig hollers, causing a stampede of excited  
dogs to squeeze through the fence into the vast forest.  
 
We stay in a group, searching for good sticks. I hear the loud cackles of the coyotes in the distance, further motivating me to find a stick quickly. A long firm one, under a pine. I clamp my jaws around the middle, holding it firmly. A smaller dog approaches, eyeing my stick closely. I growl loudly, chasing him off. I speed off to the larger horde, following behind. The hoarse cackling gets closer, signaling the coyotes are near. The dogs start to scatter, nervous whines filling the air. I bolt away, only a few others following. My legs ache as I run, I'm unable to tell if the coyotes are close. A slower  
dog drops into a deep ditch, I can't turn around. 
 
 I ran into a clearing, I can't even hear the crickets. My head snaps to the rustling behind me, just in time to see a scraggly coyote charge at me. I stagger back, swinging my head to hit the coyote with the stick. I land a blow, but the coyote does not cease. "I hit you!" I bark, "you're supposed to run back!" The coyote persists, snapping at my legs. I hit the coyote again, the attacks did not stop. "Stop!" I yelp, afraid. The coyote sinks its teeth into my flank, a shriek of pain escaping my mouth. I drop the stick, whipping around to gnaw at its neck. Snap. The coyote goes limp on the ground. "I did what they said," I mutter, a tear streaming down my cheek, "this isn't what they told me would happen." I sit by the coyote, head hanging low. "Why didn't they tell me this isn't a game?" I cry to the forest, tears cascading down my face.  
 
"This isn't what I joined for."