I lick the marrow out and gnaw the bone

my master gave me. I got pizza too.

But sometimes he goes out and I’m alone.



That’s when I chew his pillow or his new

comforter apart, or his wool sweater.

My canine teeth are better than a shredder;

they pull to pieces nearly any item

that they can reach: today his navy-blue

sweatpants he bought last night. Don’t misconstrue 

my rationale. You fancy that I spite ’im

to trouble him. Why, no! That’s not my aim.



I make believe I’m chasing after prey

while ripping up his stuff—a hunting game.

It’s not my fault if they don’t run away.

(Appeared in Umbrella)