My beast fears me as we fear the Lord. Its only sins inherent, strewn across my days in hair and den scent. I do not care for this, but I care that it trembles when I come to it; howls when I walk away. It roams my home, avoiding me. It hackles at any approach not mine. I give it all it needs, but it still will not come when I call. I listen to it snore in the other room and sit, like God, alone, with cold and empty hands.
My dog is crazy. I love her very much, but she was obviously abused by whomever owned her first. She’s definitely an Omega in a pack, and treats me like I’m a hyper-Alpha. I basically a god to her, and this poem is an appreciation of that irony.