Who’s a Good Boy

We put the family dog down.
But what did he know.
We kept calling him a good boy,
and with what strength he had left,
his body would twitch
and fall limp.

October is a terrible month.
Leaves leave.
Breathe steam.
Dogs die.
Ghostly goodbye.
We kept calling you a good boy,
in between feeding you treats.
October is a terrible month.
It’s a month full of tricks.

None of us expected you to marry.
Your proclivity towards promiscuity
was well documented.
In any case,
we knew that the reception,
your reception,
would be centered around an open bar.
This would become the precursor
to your marriage.

We knew you were an animal.
A snake.
A fox.
A dog.
A rat.
The black sheep.
But none of us expected
your bite to be worse than your bark.

Behind black eyes,
your wife tried
not to cry.
Explaining to us
the itch you couldn’t scratch.
But none of that mattered.
We all knew the difference
between an accident
and an act of aggression.
Pissing on the couch is one thing,
but you never put your paws on a woman.

We put the family dog down.
But what did he know.
We kept calling him a good boy,
and with what strength he had left,
his body would twitch
and fall limp.

This was one dog
we couldn’t
throw a bone to.

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