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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