Restraint by Marshall Callaway

I hate your dog.
Because she replaced me
or because outside of your
expert training
she had no manners,
either way I hate the bitch.
Yet one can’t help but be moved
by the farewell drop
of a devoted cadaver dog long retired
falling to the ground on top
of the grave of her handler.
She must have known it was you,
for if the embalming fluids
did anything to remove your scent
we tried our best to restore it
with a few packs of menthols,
two bottles of scotch,
and a bag of candy,
a little somethin-somethin for the journey.
I wonder just how sensitive her nose is
whether she could tell that the
smokes were unsmoked
scotch was undrunk
through the earth
and the lead-lined vault
and the casket of reclaimed barn wood.
The other dogs were better.
The one we put down on my birthday,
when you had all but abandoned your post
as husband and father
and demanded I tend to the dog
so your wife could have a vacation,
he was a better dog.
The shepherds sent to live with my brother,
that you’d be damned if you’d see go to other homes
because you’d put too much work into them
though you were no longer around
to see to them,
they were better dogs.
This little shit,
this unbreakable puppy who,
weighing in at 104 pounds,
jumps on the elderly,
she’s a rotter.
Obnoxious, annoying.
How anyone could desire her breed
is beyond me.
But with one plotz and mournful yowl,
my sympathies shift from me to her.
There is no consoling her.
She lies pitiful by your casket spray
and I can tell she knows,
she understands what has happened.
Once she gets up, my revulsion floods back
and I just want to kick her.
But I don’t.
For you.