Ask The Dog

Ask the dog what he thinks

Of running, panting, chasing

His tail, day and night.

Ask what he thinks

Of bones, cats, you, me.

He’ll never tell.

He may cock his head

Or bark, maybe growl.

When you say “speak”

He will, but only because

You trained him to do so.

The truth is he doesn’t think,

He just does, like you, like me,

Like we, too, are trained to do.

Empathy For the Hungry Stray

It’s hard to be certain
When one’s arm is bitten
Whether the maxillary arcade hits
Bone first, or if it is the mandibular
That lacerates deep

Against one’s radius
Through punctured skin.
For a moment, the foaming,
Sanguine clamp of incisors
Against soft flesh fascinates,

But as the canines seize
Skin—tear through red layers
Of muscle—one screams;
When premolars rip
Away bleeding tissue,

One notes the saw of enamel
On ulna, and—jaw-locked—
The dog vociferates;
Were the arm not shredding,
One might wonder

At the hound’s pain and reason,
But instead one would drive
An ill-tempered foot hard
Into a soft, empty belly
Of an unpedigreed bitch.