Monday, January 26, 2015

A Fuzzy Manifesto

with a nod to Allen Ginsberg
I saw the best dogs of my breed destroyed by the Humane Society, starving, fur wet and matted,
who limped, footpads torn, through angry yards at dawn searching for water and a pat on the head.

Who were expelled from homes for pissing on carpets and chewing on begonias.
Who howled in the backyard for the joy of howling
and were dragged off, abandoned on the other side of town.

Who ate Kentucky Fried Chicken bones from the trash and
curled up, wet and forsaken
on the front yards of Amerika.

Who, desperate, found themselves on the steps of Academia
where they were strapped to tables and injected with cancer cells and formaldehyde.
Who, with no thought but preservation, found themselves in front of the camera,
starved so that they would eat Alpo.

Who burned alive in plaid doggy sweaters as they sat in 110-degree cars
waiting for their masters to return from Sears with the doggy door.

Who lost their pups to human whims and
then plunged themselves under Michelins searching for their progeny.

Ah, dog, you are not safe, I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total dog soup of time.

Who, returning years later truly bald except for spots of blood
Dog, risen again in the ghostly clothes of ribs, saying, Man—my best friend—
why have you forsaken me?

by Nancy Todd
in Volume 3 Issue 2
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