When dogs maul
Shoot the dog, sure, kill the whole breed; regardless of any sympathy for dogs who only have dog thoughts or any argument that can be mounted that owners are to blame. Just kill them all. I’d say shoot the owners too who as far as I can ascertain have fewer thoughts than dogs and elicit less sympathy. Too many backyards are overgrown, geraniums aflame, the melange of creeping grasses cracking concrete sending the hills hoist aslant to point down at the punctured football, the tennis ball chewed free of fur, the ice-cream containers licked clean; this and inside’s like anywhere, the dumb curtains drawn, the blue half-light of remembering, forgetting; the pipes shudder, the blind timbers creak as everything contracts into the one base value. You can’t shoot what needs shooting, so shoot the dog at least. This little girl the other day, poor little girl with her floral dress and her curls. Gone now. My daughter’s face still bears the scars, little white lines, of her dog. She was sewn and smiles still, her pretty face framed by her long hair. For the sake of God, gods, shoot the dogs.