dog eat dog

my uncle loved that dog to death. to death
not in the [worries me] [bored us] [scared me half to]
sense – love killed her. it can do that sometimes
if you’re not careful. my uncle dragged her on hikes,
to work, afternoon jogs. sang her to sleep. and i’m not sure
if it was all the running, or the stress of the nine-to-five, or
two shattered eardrums, but her little body gave up. stone
dead. he buried her in a pasture on the family farm, between
the weeping cherry and the haybales, but you’re
supposed to seal the body in a bag, i guess – for the
dirt and the worms and the smell – but he must’ve
forgotten, because last thanksgiving his new dachshund
went sniffing and dug up a femur. strolled up
to the table and punctuated the prayer with a proud thump
at my uncle’s feet. and his eyes got all wide, and my
little cousin threw up on the turkey. sunk the gravy boat.
and god, i’ve never heard want like that – that gnawing.
each crunch a quest for marrow. tooth on bone. and all the time
i’m trying to make it beautiful. old dog living on
in the new, maybe, sustained on unused cells and patches
of flesh. but i just can’t. maybe some things have to be
ugly. it’s just i’d always hoped life was more than that –
than finding something you love badly enough

and starting to chew.

Alexander Gast lives and writes in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. He enjoys loud music, homemade pesto, and clouds that don't look like much of anything.