Fertilizer bombs don’t help the RSPCA

My dead dog has a rotten jaw and more fur than claws.

Her skin peels back to expose the sinew I still patch and spend.

So I try to walk her with rotten fur and a partial jaw,

in a park full of lassies and sport jerseys

there’s no room for a carcass

unless she sells herself to the pit bull

and pretends not to notice the spit dripping

and the collar slipping from my dead dog.

Her bed is always patchy and sullied

with faeces from late night

did-nae-quite make it to the back door.

Almost, she is almost there.

I feed her weekly with scraps from the week that was,

my praise is her praise and her sores are bulging

as I start indulging and gushing

about when she was a pup

and the only way was up.

Like when she growled at me when I first shifted in bed and

she said, with her just-started-dripping eyes,

‘there’s an artery in your leg that connects directly

to the rational organ in your head that made you buy me originally.

So you have to see the irony of this threat’.

I can’t bring her to work and she killed both my parents.

She attacked them without mercy, ripped through their purses

then turned around and starred at me with hungry-but-dripping eyes.

I want her dead.

Almost, I want her almost dead.

She sits on the couch and judges everything I do,

explains why she is the only cure for the bugs under my skin.

She says she’s the great bug hunter, the real reason SARS was farce.

I just need to get past her partial jaw and trust that, should I drown her,

the bugs will grow bigger and infect my cerebral cortex

and things will get worse.

But I’m tricky

and my next move is ring barking her neck

as she barks at me to stop, the skin pulls back quickly

and her grey blood mixes with my chaises lounges’ smack black,

dead straight way forward.

I dissolved her in lime and now

I just sit and patiently count the time before my next shift.

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