alittlepoison

the year of the dog slinks into the room with a broken monkey in his jaw - he seems to notice my discomfort (as only an old dog can) and releases the darwinian carcass at my feet - looks up lovingly - seeks approval - humps my leg and dies before my eyes (as only an old dog can) and i turn the first page of the new year calendar that my aunt sent me in the post (she used to be a nun and doesn’t believe in darwinian theory or dogs of any breed) while i pray to february monkeys to bring me more luck.

the year of the dog is scratching at his fleas (his tail betraying happiness in every ironic waggle) as he accidentally falls on his head mid-scratch and stares (eyes blood-shot) at the photograph of me and my ex-girlfriend above the fireplace in the disused lounge and viewing room - he seeks approval - disappointed at my lack of here boy and sit boy and good boy he eventually falls into a sad and eternal sleep and i stare at his death longingly and think about this loyal friend’s final desertion.

the year of the dog digs his own pitiful grave where mother’s flowerbed used to be and while i rattle this plastic food dish and call his name - what an inappropriate name this geriatric puppy now snuggles - he toils endlessly for the first time ever ignoring his master’s voice - staring lovingly at the overcast imminent tremors of storm approaching - he warns me one last time with a howl that splits the night sky that dry dog biscuits are just a step between now and the year of the frog.