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.