I watch him waddle down the street
head bent low
practically touching the ground,
an expression so depressed
it almost makes me cry.
If he were a person instead
of a dog, he’d be a slave.
That’s all he’d need:
a set of chains to weigh him down
(It wouldn’t take much to stop him in his tracks)
a ring through the nose, with a collar
to keep him from looking to either side.
We say, thank God we don’t have slavery
any more; but these poor canine
creatures have stepped in to take its place.
Think of his ancestors, big, strong;
They took the easy way out,
(free food, a fire to keep them warm)
and we took advantage of that move,
molded them like clay figurines,
and in so many cases, like a fish, hooked,
like toy miniature models of our world,
fixed in place now, butter-flyed to a board,
leashed by our laws, and our vainglorious need
to be lords of the roost.