rescue dogs

Rescue dogs press ribs

against chain link fences.

Hunger grows fur

and learns to whimper.

Each carries a story

written in mange, cigarette burns,

missing ears, limps that predicted rain.

When anyone lifts their hand too quickly,

a brindled mutt hides beneath a plastic chair.

Volunteers call them damaged,

but the dogs still wagged their tails

like broken metronomes keeping time with hope.

She signed papers for the oldest one.

The woman behind the counter asked,

“Are you sure?” as if love

should always seek something easier to carry home.

That night he slept beside her bed

dreaming whatever dogs dream.

Open fields or a hand that never strikes.

People tell her she should rescue humans instead.

They talk of lonely hearts,

about broken men at bars

who wear grief like nicotine stains,

about women who collect sorrow

inside coffee cups and voicemail boxes.

She tried; she sat at kitchen tables

while he unfolded every wound

like unpaid bills.

She answered midnight calls

thick with whiskey and self-hatred.

She stood knee deep drowning

in someone else’s despair.

She learned humans will bite your hand

then explain why the blood is actually your fault.

Humans bury cruelty

beneath polished teeth and theology.

Humans say forever

while reaching for the door.

But rescue dogs don’t ask you

to become smaller for their comfort.

They do not weaponize tenderness.

They do not confuse survival with domination.

Feed them and they remember.

Sit beside them during thunder,

and they lean their frightened bodies

against your legs like prayer.

Love them long enough and they begin to believe

the world is not entirely punishment.

And sometimes that is enough

to save two creatures at once.

5-27-26