Foundling​

Issue 18

Off the Lovington Highway,
by the Iron Skillet, across from the park,
he wore a pink collar, with no tag.
A small terrier, maybe a year old,
he leapt into our SUV.
That night, he found a chip in a wall
he started chipping away at.
I thought, we took him in and he’s turning
our home into a crack house.
He liked to look out the front window.
In the backyard, when I called him
to come in, he took the long way around.
One night he slipped out the gate,
and we got a call. He was in a man’s lap
behind the windshield of a van
in a Walmart parking lot. I gave all
the money I had with me, only ten dollars,
to the man and woman in the van.
He couldn’t be off-leash;
he’d wander. He was a finicky eater.
We’d play a game: I’d place my hand
on a cushion and he’d snap at it.
He perched on the console
in my Jeep when riding so he could see.
I miss riding with him.
With other dogs he went to the groomer.
On the night of February 16th,
in our home, he was in the wrong place
at the wrong time. The pit bull
attacked, then I saw Mac.
He was seventeen.
He deserved to die of natural causes.
I miss looking down at him and asking,
“Why are you following me around
like a little dog?”

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PETER MLADINIC’s most recent book of poems, The Whitestone Bridge, is available from Anxiety Press. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.

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