Poor pooch

American Life in Poetry

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The only times I feel truly homicidal are when I see somebody abusing a pet, and I was glad to find this poem so I could get that off my chest. But don’t ever even think about taking a kick at my old dog, Howard. Wesley McNair lives in Maine and is that state’s poet laureate. This is from his book “Lovers of the Lost,” from David R. Godine. 

The Puppy

From down the road, starting up

and stopping once more, the sound 

of a puppy on a chain who has not yet 

discovered he will spend his life there.

Foolish dog, to forget where he is 

and wander until he feels the collar 

close fast around his throat, then cry 

all over again about the little space

in which he finds himself. Soon,

when there is no grass left in it 

and he understands it is all he has, 

he will snarl and bark whenever

he senses a threat to it. 

Who would believe this small 

sorrow could lead to such fury 

no one would ever come near him?