The Scrap Dog Hunts His New Dog

 

The sun fell backwards over the bluff.

Between the pitted granite wall

And the gray hog leg mountain.

He reached the cheap pint of vodka

From his Sherriff Brown jacket pocket.

Felt the swallow burn the hernia he earned

Swinging a church softball bat.

Molly growled at the edge of the pines.

Get back here, you stupid bitch.

He wheezed to his feet

Swinging an oak stick at the Labrador.

She barked the high pitched

Machine gun bark that made him crazy.

He took another unhealthy swallow

Of the Popov and leveled his pistol

Across his left arm. It shook

And when he fired he missed,

Sparking the rock ledge and Molly

Ran hard as she could,

Snuffing through the pine needles

Till she fell and he wondered

If he had somehow finally hit her.