A Black Dog

The crossroads, 

a place of execution.

A nocturnal apparition,

as a pet for the king of the underworld.

A hellhound they say,

that feeds on death and disgrace.

A Black Dog,

that's presence alone conjures up hellfire and storms.

An ancient pathway between life and death,

is just a Black Dog.

A Fido, Ollie, Junior, or Buddy, 

but without a name.

He is A Black Dog and loyal, nonetheless.

A faithful companion to the prince of Hell,

a gift from Hades himself.

Yet the life of a hellhound isn't one of jerky treats and belly rubs,

A Black Dog doesn't get tossed table scraps,

nor does he cuddle with his master.

With half-awake cracked eyes and lazy Tuesday afternoons,

he guards the lands and doesn't rest.

His master trained him well,

and although he is a dog,

he is anything but a companion.

Head-strong and beautiful,

he stalks the lands with head held high.

But life is cruel for A Black Dog,

and contrary to urban legends he doesn't live to kill,

and feed on souls of the undead.

Satan's reaper-dog is a lover of nature.

A lover of sun-warmed roads and cracked sidewalks,

warm hands and behind-the-ear scratches.

Things A Black Dog could only dream of,

things that would never come true living at deaths door.

He dreams of dewy morning grass,

wetting his paws,

nails overgrown and digging into the fresh earth. 

However, a hellhound lives in the underworld,

as a guardian of the anguished souls,

and earth in hell is scorched.

There is no grass or rain,

and morning walks with his master are unacquired.

He longed for the mundane,

So, he left his kingdom of hellfire,

and found himself in the suburbs.

The trees had leaves,

no scorch-marks or ash.

The air was free of smoke and sounds of agony,

instead,

filled with crisp fall-time breezes and morning doves.

His tail wagged for the first time as large black paws carry him down the street.

But A Black Dog stands out along a suburban neighborhood.

His fur is tangled and dirty,

nothing like the pampered pooch he saw sunbathing earlier.

However, 

to a small boy with dark hair and olive skin,

A Black Dog is perfect.

He called him perfect as the boy called out to his mother,

pointing at the dog with wide viridian eyes.

His tail tucked,

the mighty hellhound tucked his tail.

Fear of rejection filled his veins as the young boy approached,

but as chicken chunks were thrown in his direction,

he gobbled it down and felt little hands petting his head.

And before he knew it, 

soft leather was slipped around his neck where a leash was clipped.

He was brought into their home,

marble counters and fluffy sofas filled the rooms.

Dirty paws marked up the cream-colored carpets,

but no one yelled or scolded him,

only soft chirps and patted thighs to coax him along the house.

The room of waters brought him anxiety,

but more chicken chased the fear away as the little man poured water over his body,

soapy suds of lavender scent scrubbed into his tangled fur,

multiple times,

until mother deemed him clean.

Soft towels rubbed him dry as his fur was brushed out and untangled,

and that night he slept on a huge bed,

wrapped up in the arms of the little angel man.

There were no angels in hell,

none that hugged him or fed him table scraps like the little man did.

A Black Dog only knew the darkness and violence that followed him,

yet here,

A Black Dog is loved and comforted.

He would stay with the little angel man,

and thank God a hellhound lives forever.

His new master would never mourn his death,

for A Black Dog lived forever,

and forever he shall finally:

Live.