[Excerpt from a hound trainer's guide]
From each litter, there's usually somewhere shy of four good pups, but we always drown the runt.
Them that remain spend three or so months sucklin' from their mothers before we start 'em up with the training. It's simple at first, returning sticks and sitting still on command. Only pissin' outside and the like. But by the eighth month, we got 'em hunting for scented sack-dolls hidden in a scrub forest, killin' wild pigs on command, and taking a man in padden armor down by hangin' onto his forearm.
At the end of the first year, we graduate the ones that've learned and shoot the ones that haven't. The Overseers take them after that and we never see them again.
Except once. Walking down Clavering Boulevard, an Overseer passed me, preachin' about the Litany on the White Cliff and the evils of witchery, and sure enough his hound started whimpering and waggin' its tail. That's how I knew it was one of mine, whelped up from a pup.