Claiming The Crazy Dog

I was moving ahead swiftly, nearly skipping,
flying over everything, heard noise
from behind, turned.

Saw a leash caught on a thorn tree
and a white dog upon it thrashing,
howling, speckled with his own spit.

I recognized him.
This dog was mine,
was named for all the dark acts

that were done for me via privilege and in my name;
whether or not I did them myself,
I owned the hound and couldn’t ignore him.

I untangled the leash
and took it on though he bit me hard.
To this day as we walk

(I can neither run, skip, nor trot anymore)
he snaps at me and at all who pass, and never stops howling.
I strain to hold him back simply because I must.

There’s nothing heroic in it.
I own a crazy white dog
and his name is

“The Stubborn Adherence Of Hidden Favor
On The Path To Success.”
Like most show dogs’ names,

it’s too unwieldy for daily use.
I just call him Whitey
and keep one eye on him always.