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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4413 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Intermission: The Whimpers of a Whipped Dog Gary Blankenship Outside the pack’s circle, the mangy mongrel lies head in paws defeated perhaps never to rise again. He has been whipped before, but this time age and old battle scars, broken claws and empty teeth, aid his enemies. World-weary, he lies in the red, wet dust and dreams of lavender in France, Scottish moors (so like home), the twang of barbeque in Tennessee. Of Geishas, banana trees and secrets kept from his masters and those who tried to be. Of golden apples, swimming in seas on the moon, debutants and rusty swords. The pack moves on, the hound left to die or live as the Gods of Dogs (who do not care or interfere in the death or breath of canines) desire. Already, skin and bones and fur, he lies until only a shell remains, maggots and crows ready to move in. Until with a shudder, his fragile frame rises, staggers, steadies to trot off down the road. Mongrel, mutt, cur he might be, but his kind were once princes. And there are still daydreams to hold, bitches to sniff, pups to cuddle. Besides it is too damn cold and wet to die on this dusty, frozen road. |
