Sleeping dogs curled up in hand-made beds,
with pretty scarves tied 'round their necks,
green scarves this time that look quite nice
against the green covers of their hand-made matresses.
The big one snores.
I've never trusted those who can't love dogs;
cats too, though that's more easily understood.
Cats, they do not live in packs with leaders.
They are, like me, much more solitary,
recognize no owner; in fact cannot be owned.
So I more easily understand those humans,
those two-legged animals, who,
because they cannot dominate a cat,
cannot love a cat, since, it seems,
so many two-legged animals
confuse dominance or ownership
with love.
A dog you see will allow that.
He will let you own him or dominate,
perhaps even accept abuse, and
still will follow you, come with tail wagging,
and greet you with delight
even when you've been gone
no more than just a moment.
Still, some human animals cannot return that love.
So, I don't trust them.
A heart so cold as to be unable to love one who
gives love so freely;
a mind that so needs to dominate;
a soul that so needs to hurt.
Are they the ones, I suppose they are,
who train dogs to fight or kill
and call it sport?
Are they the ones, they must be,
who wager which loyal dog
will win and live and which will die?
I don't trust them.
What is it in the heart of man that finds sport
in pain or death?
There is a darkness in such a heart,
an emptiness in such a soul.
I don't trust them.
How could it not be true that the same
dark heart, the same empty soul,
is always there?
There is a lack in such a one,
perhaps born there,
that can't be fixed.
I don't trust them.
I hear the snore, glance up again to see
that both dogs have moved from beds to floor.
They like the cool feel in summer.
In winter they much prefer a bed -
theirs or mine - and the warmth of their pack.
So do I.