Inside Dog
April 14 2008


An indoor cat has been de-clawed.
It would be cruel to let her go,
slinking-out like a sleek black whisper
through a crack in the door.
Her world is an aquarium,
propped for hours on the ledge
like an upside-down question mark,
stalking something on the other side of the glass.
Or staring intently at TV
— wildebeest stampedes,
duck calls.
She’s still graceful, if soft,
leaping down onto polished floors
with a barely audible thud.
An empress in a small apartment
demurely licking her paws.

A dog strains at his leash
tongue flapping, tail slapping furiously,
so you'd swear he’s about to throttle himself.
Then explodes like a wound-up spring
when freed,
a mad dash and manic circles
barking.
Such excitement
like a wilful mischievous child,
his nose deep in something ripe.
You call out to him
— Sam or Maggie or Max —
growing steadily sterner.
And he furtively glances back
his tail moving nervously
— a canine brain
practicing its clever deception.

There is no such thing as an inside dog.
All whimpering whiny puppy eyes,
even a cat person would break
under the pressure,
and let him run wild.