When my aunt Lois's dog George
ran away, it hurt her heart.
We came home
to find the the screen out
and no dog in the house.
We hunted, but their wasn't
any dog in the closets,
the kitchen cabinets,
or those half-rotted boxes.
Where does a scrawny dog go
when he leaves?
My aunt's theory:
some other old lady,
a neighbor, maybe a friend even,
saw us pile in for the IGA.
She'd been watching and plotting,
and she jimmied the screen open
with her nail file,
reached her sneaky arm in,
and snatched him.
I thought more likely
George had decided
to hell with this
fat lady's lap, to hell
with this kid dressing me up,
to hell with these cats, too.
But who can say for sure?
He was gone, and gone for good.