I lick the marrow out and gnaw the bone
my master gave me. I got pizza too.
But sometimes he goes out and I’m alone.
That’s when I chew his pillow or his new
comforter apart, or his wool sweater.
My canine teeth are better than a shredder;
they pull to pieces nearly any item
that they can reach: today his navy-blue
sweatpants he bought last night. Don’t misconstrue
my rationale. You fancy that I spite ’im
to trouble him. Why, no! That’s not my aim.
I make believe I’m chasing after prey
while ripping up his stuff—a hunting game.
It’s not my fault if they don’t run away.
(Appeared in Umbrella)
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