Butch

Margaret V.Doran

He cringed at the sound of my step
        but feigned innocence
In horror I surveyed the scene.

He had disemboweled it!

At the fury in my voice
        he ran to the corner and
        cringed there all terror
I despised that position
he couldn't be afraid; I had only
        whipped him once
But how could he pretend innocence
        with evidence strewn door to door
        its stinking guts covering my floor
Potato peels and coffee grounds
the carrot peelings he ate
        (don't ask me why)
bet he rejected completely the slimy
        black banana peels
and the remains of a peeled onion
        rotting remnants of a writing project
I wished I could put him outside and
        leave him there
but the fascination the neighbor’s pond
        and its ducks
held for my dog exceeded even his
        love for the garbage.

Copyright © 1997 Margaret V. Doran. All rights reserved.

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Updated July 1, 1999
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