Of Them

When my father was at work, Momma would bring Bandit inside

to nap with us. Trying not to ruin his mood, she would always

remind us not to let on that the dog had been in our bed.

 

I keep remembering those hunting dogs he kept in a crowded pen—

the ones he’d forget needed food or water, the ones my Momma

would then take pity upon and care for. I never knew their

 

names but why would I? Part of them wouldn’t last past throwing

their bodies over the fence they climbed—loosely collared,

catching the emblems of ownership on the fence tops

 

stealing both breath and escape, before my Momma would find

flea’d bodies hanging. I hear he breeds now, the high-dollar

dogs, those collared by prices. Little changes past

 

original scheme: the want for glory, the only thing really hunted,

the thing that comes and goes, always eaten up while good

intent is no more than fatty scraps thrown to strays.

 

Becoming more used to how men like him are, my sister and I aged

into watching. From the living room window, she witnessed

as our father and his like-him friend were hollering

 

and going on, throwing rocks at our Maggie—from the front door

my sister shot out, kneeling to grab at gravel as she got near,

slinging hard as she could at the men and the trucks

 

they leaned against, getting herself cussed at while she cussed back

getting our dog free. Teenaged, I’d wait for him to get home

angry at everything he thought I was thinking, ready

 

to hush me up; Dylan would near enough piss himself positioning

himself between us, remaining as long as needed. My father

never dared to hit me but took it upon himself to

 

try and break me all the same. But Momma, never one to allow

hurt to happen, taught us to let dogs teach us—of them

I learned: dogs may not want to bite, but we will.