Good Boy

it’s so much easier to play dead

and leave my fate up to the drooling fanged beast before me

than it is to stand up and fight. after all, I wasn’t trained for this. I was raised on filtered water, salmon broiled solely for me, and Rachel Ray treats that helped train me to sit down and shut up. (but,

oh, how you knew I loved those treats.) my only training in self-preservation came innately through my pure-bred mother’s genes, which you so generously paid thousands of dollars for. all that money and I still don’t have what it takes to keep myself alive. just soft curly hair and a miniature stature that you thought made me cuter, but didn’t realize would later shrink my chances of being able to fight any force bigger than me. I'm just tired. too damn tired of fetching after meaningless objects with these stunted legs to see the worth in defending my life. I’m a pet, goddamnit–– hardly a dog. I was raised to please you. to sit down lay down roll over shake leave it give stay and never stray from the notion that you are in charge and that that is for my own good. call me your little guard dog, but these barks of mine  that you find so amusing are cries for help.

you are not scared of the deer in the backyard and their

peaceful saunter, I know that much.

I do not bark on your behalf.

you are scared, however, that some day I, too, may saunter so peacefully outside this

invisible fence you’ve built to contain me.

I cry out to them––the free––for perhaps

they were raised to fight these beasts

that I was supposed to have been hidden from

under the false pretense that I am

a good boy

for doing as you say.

//

mf.