there was something in
his eyes.
those black deep eyes.
you could tell he wasn't right.
too much
inbreeding.
too much blood
passed down along the line.
how easily
he could destroy
a house.
a shoe,
a chair leg. biting
a can in half
was a pleasure for him.
barking at the television
was non stop.
there was no walking him.
walking
a fish
would have been easier,
a straighter line.
and yet, and yet, despite
everything.
despite the four hundred
dollars
monthly vet bill after he
would eat a dead
bird, or mouse,
you still found a way to
love him.
which gave you hope
for your own bad self.
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