Austin Phelps
Editor-in-Chief
Content Warning: Graphic Descriptions of Violence
Left on the side of a backroad, the basset hound puppy
limps down the earthen track, hip cocked to one side
so he can walk straight, long drooped ears dragging
on the ground, as rocks pick open scabs left by flies.
The puppy wants nothing more than a drink of water,
looks to his surroundings, sees the beating sun above,
the dried brown grass, a puddle without water,
and he knows his journey will not be easy, continues on
as his paws peel on the pavement, grinding to the ground
with every step, leaving them raw, like chopped hamburger.
The pup flops on the ground, all four legs spread,
tongue out, drool pouring down like sweat off a man’s face.
Eyes close shut, for a second, sees himself roaming freely
in green fields, chasing rabbits, digging holes, burying bones
wakes up just as a pick-up roars by, a little girl, blonde,
pigtailed and teary eyed, shouts at her father to stop.
As the puppy is loaded into the truck, he yelps, remembers
being tied up in the yard, no collar, metal chain wrapped
around his neck so tight it embedded itself, leaving an
everlasting reminder: not all dog owners are good people.As the puppy is loaded into the truck, he yelps, remembers
being tied up in the yard, no collar, metal chain wrapped
around his neck so tight it embedded itself, leaving an
everlasting reminder: not all dog owners are good people.