Historia ut Canem

James Bowden

I.
I’m domesticated, like a dog, and lick the palm of your hand. Your cheek. A rescue dog, a rescued dog, I
am feral underneath but I will learn to roll over and expose my soft underbelly: I will learn to do tricks.

II.
Mr. Pumblechook always said, give thanks to those who raised you by hand. But what he really meant,
was don’t bite the hand that feeds you. And feed the hand that fed you. And you open your mouth to

III.
and the bit bites. Digs in real good. What the fuck were you thinking? I sit back on my haunches and
whinny. No, I whine. That thing, hungry within me, grows. You eye me, warily. There is something I must

IV.
But by the time it matters, you’ve forgotten. I’m good, now. I’m an animal in the circus and the crowd oohs
and ahhs in my wake. People send me flowers. Come nuzzle me after the show. I twist into their arms.

V.
But everyone knows the story. Then the town has had enough of you and the tents must be brought down
and rolled up and the animals trod heavily toward Damascus. All playthings get thrown out, but I want

VI.
But that’s not an option. So soon enough, you’re back at it, new place, new people, same tricks, and God,
I wish someone would take me home. The lost puppy eyes don’t work anymore, because, let’s face it:

VII.
You know you’re lost. And it’s only cute to be lost when you’re young and wily and sure of yourself and
don’t know what lost means, just not me. I roam and I rut. I toss and I jut. I yawn and yelp in the same

VIII.
breath. Tag me and float me down the river. Skewer me on a spit and roast me. Use me, somehow. These
days, I feel mostly like a wild animal. Like a curio, but whom nobody is curious about. My tongue lolls.