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Dear Big Dog,

I am wondering why you have no head? Only long skinny stick legs that whirl around in an excitable frenzy, ending abruptly to create the impression of a walking table.  How convenient for a summers day picnic or an impromptu tabletop discussion concerning the meaning of such a monstrosity. 

You are entirely mechanical, unlike he who was made from remains of the dead and animated by a lightening bolt during a vicious storm.  So I feel no danger and I am not threatened, but I do feel sorry for you.  You’re inventors will kick you like a stray dog, putting you off balance and observe you scrambling about in order to regain you balance and carry out your duty like an obedient slave.  

Looking at you now, I believe that you were made to rescue people from Earthquakes and bomb sites but what of how you came to be?  Being created by the military aside, you came to be through a series of explosions and hard labour in the mines where the raw stuff of your being was extracted.  You came to be through a series hand shakes and signatures, paychecks and lorry driving and now here you are scrambling around like a decapitated donkey.

Best wishes,
Necrospective