The Dog

I once hit a dog

Its jaws locked around my own dog

Whimpering. Bleeding.

Terror in her eyes.

I thrust my hands into its face

Heaved it across the room

Pinned it to the ground.

My voice darkened like a demon’s

I growled ‘NO.’

 

I relented.

 

The dog bit me, drawing blood from my lip

A responsibility to what was mine had heaved the dog across the room

But the bite absolved me of my obligation to show restraint.

I cut my knuckle on its face and slammed it into the ground
I laughed, red iron salving my tongue.
Chemicals mixed with neurons.

Fear mixed with elation

 

It felt good to hit the dog. It felt right.

 

Is that wrong?
It was necessary. It was justified. It was natural.

 

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