For Summer

My beast fears me 
as we fear 
the Lord. 
Its only sins
inherent, strewn across my
days in hair and den scent.
I do not care for this, but I care that
it trembles when I come to it;
howls when I walk away. 
It roams my home, avoiding 
me. It hackles at any approach
not mine. I give it all it needs, 
but it still will not come
when I call.

I listen to it snore in the
other room and
sit, like God, 
alone, with cold
and empty hands.

My dog is crazy. I love her very much, but she was obvi­ous­ly abused by whomev­er owned her first. She’s def­i­nite­ly an Omega in a pack, and treats me like I’m a hyper-Alpha. I basi­cal­ly a god to her, and this poem is an appre­ci­a­tion of that irony.

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