bad dog – April 9


Bad dog. The baleful head, already lowering, turns

a sideways eye up to my accusation,

and then ever so softly and gently,

lets the missing half of my salmon

‘n cheese sandwich

drop to the floor.


It must have been the cheese

Even unwrap a block from the fridge,

and he turns the corner in a mute ask.

We all have our weakness. And bad company.

Those pups from up the hill who munched

my pasta and parmesan off the back porch

one day. They’ve led him astray.


It’s that way with us all. Honest, part of the

family. But oh, that one thing… the apple

in the garden for each of us… and we fall.

It’s why my wife said that I had to forgive

him. He wouldn’t be able to stand the exile

from our pack. From the garden of our home.


So I pat him on the way out the door where he

has exiled himself in quiet on cold slate

since the remand. And I fluff his hair, chuck

under his chin, and rough the uplooking head,

to let him know that he is still in grace.

Still in the garden, our pack, the family.


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