J. Frederica Golden
My Plague
I once had a dog
who killed anything that moved.
Cheyanne. Way too ladylike a name.
She stalked her territory
like a plague, seeking victims.
She’d chase them down, relentlessly,
changing direction with the
deadly accuracy of a missile,
singleminded, eyes fixed
on her prey, who, terrified,
ran with all the skill they were born with,
in hopes of surviving the chase.
Some did.
The swift rabbit, weaving across
an open field.
The deer, crashing through tangles
of brush until she was trapped
and unable to follow.
Then she lifted her head
and howled, outraged.
Some, she caught.
The unfortunate squirrel,
surprised while digging a hole.
She pushed it down with
an arrogant paw, clamping her mouth
around its head, not hard enough to kill,
but hard enough to stun, its body
hanging, still but alive, from her mouth.
Some turned, at the end,
like the groundhog,
standing on its hind legs
to make itself bigger,
opening its mouth and screaming
as she closed in.
When she had it trapped,
she circled, bowing on her front legs,
scampering around it, a puppy
enjoying a game. And when she saw
the opportunity, dashing in to bite
until fur filled her mouth.
Speed. Skill. Innocence.
Nothing could fully protect
from the random catch of her eye.
And when she had her prey
in her sights, no call for mercy
from me could stop her
from the harsh imperative of her drive.
When she finally passed away,
her last chase over,
I sighed, and felt relief.
J. Frederica Golden lives in Rhinebeck, NY.
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