Bad Dog

By Kathleen Armstrong

I get mean when I’m nervous. Like a bad dog.

All teeth, all bark. With pupils the size of pin needles, I am a canine without control.

Biting the hand that feeds until I taste blood— something sweeter than any treat I’ve ever earned on good terms.

And once my rage has left me and the anger has tired in my soul, they will take me out to the backyard. I will be surrounded by a white picket fence and so many of the holes I’ve dug in the hopes of burying my rabid ways.

And like a wild animal, they will put me down. The last thing I will ever do is stare down the barrel of a loaded gun.