Like a wolf, wasn’t it? Or a Dove that will never die.
I pretend it’s true—he’s not
a wolf in the guise of a dove
cuddle-able and cooing—
chatting and confidant—spouting
in-jokes while I stir my risotto—
a fragrant cloud—mushrooms,
white wine. I stir and stir.
I curry the coarse fur of his ruff
while he nuzzles my ankles and licks
between my toes. I buy him a muzzle,
a flea collar, a harness, a chew toy,
a ball and a Frisbee. I call him Good Boy.
When I massage his ear tips
how he groans with pleasure.
I tell him, Dude, the way you’re pacing,
you’ll wear a trench in the concrete,
here’s your bowl of risotto, a beef femur,
a biscuit. His face twists with cunning—
wind blowing through his mane.
He gnaws the bone to the marrow,
teeth honed razorblade keen.