bad dog

I’ve seen dogs fight. 

I can talk about it now

as all participating parties

have since died, sound asleep

in the cold spring ground.

The first time I saw a brawl

I was just a girl, maybe nine years old.

My family learned quickly

to keep a keen eye on any food

lest the bloodshed, tears would ensue.

They were guttural, the growls

the roll-arounds and snarls.

If we went to the vet, asked what we could do

the only permanent solution found

would be to put the Bad Dog down.

And so we did the best we could

but still, the fights, they would occur.

Through a muzzle, a baby gate

a buzzing collar that made loud sounds

jaws would clamp, and my mother

well, she’d shriek and scream.

But I miss my Bad Dog so dearly. 

I miss looking into his eyes

big, black and brown and tired 

and, in my heart, still around.