Consider the ermine— territorial, noxious, thieving— its dense fur whitening when light is reduced. Mesmerizing its victims with a snake dance, killing with a bite to the back of the neck. Born blind, deaf, and toothless, the male is called a “dog,” a roamer, a strayer, a transient. But huddled in my arms for warmth, with my fingernails stroking his underbelly, he forgets his untamable nature. His rounded hips shiver like mine. In folklore, he holds the soul of a dead infant; and in life, he prefers to give himself up when hunted, rather than soil himself. This is civilization, I think, roughly stroking his small ears. But then suddenly I’m chasing him around the dining room screaming, No, I told you, no! like…