Monday, February 25, 2019

Ode to a beloved pet, murdered by a pit bull

There's a little movie that plays 'round and 'round,

Replays every scream, each and every sound,Not always in order: surreal, Kafkaesque,The three weeks I spent waiting for death.

Spanning two Mondays, and then several months more,Waiting for justice, and peace to restore.It's a story of the cruelty of hope,And if justice and sanity reigns...nope.

The stain that was left on the wall,The place where he finally died in the hall,And the last bit of warmth shared to me,Was a stream of pee,On my kackis knee,And I didn't care,My dog's eyes locked in a stare. 

And how I rocked holding him, and cried:Why Why WHY?And I caressed those velvet ears once more,And wept until sore,Before I went next doorto implore"Would you be a willing pallbearer?"And I took some scissors, and cut a bit of hair.And I put it away in a filigree box,A piece of my friend, his coppery locks.

I remember the drive with his body in the back of my car,To the place where we had our last au revoir.There's the blanket, his shroud, to remember him by, And a kind man met me at the gate, and gave me a few more minutes for a final goodbye. 

Then passed a few weeks,

and I got the call to pick him up....

all of him

in a little wooden box.

My once private refuge, my sacred garden, 
Is now unhallowed ground, my heart can't seem to pardon, So there's the slow death of flowers that bloomed,Instead of life..... something else loomed,

There's still a stain on the floor,There's a hole ripped in the door,My other dog did that, while I locked her away,It was she who alerted me to the fray,The one who was silent, and thrown on his backBy a granite- like beast steadfast in attack,The rest of the pack bayed, but did not join in,The owner who said nothing, but wore a proud shifty grin,And neighbors with shovels, golf clubs, and hoes,So it plays out of order, and that's how it goes.

Sometimes, the movie just starts on its own,I can be miles and miles away from my home,Something triggers the rolling of picture frames,A sound, a recounting, something looks just the same.The resulting ostinato, like the needle caught in a record's groove,My heart is racing, I can't breathe, I can't move.

I return to that time and place, with the notion,Paralyzed by the images spinning in motion.

The movie that is easily triggered to play.Inscribed in my memory, Memorial day.Plays again, each time I see that ugly head,I pass by its home, and I have to dread,If it will be him, through the screened door, I spyIf for some reason, I have to pass by,And it roars a primeval and terrible sound,And again, that damn movie, goes 'round and 'round.

This is dedicated to anyone who was privy to watching a pit bull attack, perhaps you have been told "Just Get Over It". There's an ever expanding community of us who understand.

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