Barely concealing emotion and tentative as
if mutely accusing me of complicity she asks
if I had seen her little dog. I’ve known her all
her eleven years; while she displays at times
an artifice beyond her age I knew that this
was tender-raw and real.
Grudgingly explained of 6 dogs disabusing
inept ‘trainers’ at home it's a tan and white
Jack Russell male, cheeky nature, disposed
to truculence. I agreed I had; a week ago he
came into the back yard, sniffed and peed
assertively on flowers then ran away.
Missing since morning, looked everywhere
she said. The pout and rising lilt suggests a
sentiment suppressed by doubt concerning
my veracity. If I did - I’d let her know - I say
sincere, unless he went near chooks who
survived the last calamitous event.
Her plucky innocence conspired to make
me sad. This dog was raised in anarchy, a
barefaced terrorist, untrained or leashed or
made obey commands. If there was to be
a grim prognosis then for sure, for both of
them, it would be bad.
Tho' guiltless of the act my view protected
her and stays my rectitude; she'll never see
her dog again or know its fate. Blameless in
herself by flaws of parenting too skewed to
bare one's sense of worth to ugly truth.
© 8 February 2010, I. D. Carswell