Her snout raced along the gravel walk, ferreting out smells of others
who came before like ancestors. Full, aromatic scent of beasts unknown
hankering for freedom, off leash.
Pausing for a whiff of possibility.
Crippled by disease and wilting to the bite of anticipation, snaps
into pieces and thus desired no more. A fresh scent. Lunging forward
nails screeching through the path, “Heel” she said.
Obey. Now. For a moment.
But look, it’s the squirrel tree, long since abandoned
by the rodent racing upward. But unaware of desolation, she points. Waiting.
Accolades of the hunt. Praise. Now walk.