Peter McDonald

The dog

The dog lay there with one leg missing,
dead apparently, right in front of the door
all morning. We came out to move it,
but a crowd from somewhere catcalled and hissed,
then a stone or two clattered past us, hit
the window, took a chunk out of the wall.
We retreated, and the dog still lay there.
Silence from outside echoed in the hall.

That night, it was dogs barking everywhere,
glass crunching on the road. The TV
spat and flickered for an hour or more
until the pictures stopped, as suddenly
as the lights blacked out and the phone died.
Inside, we fumbled out matches and candles
and just made out the windows shaking, handles
tried on the strong doors. Then voices outside.

The restless natives wouldn't show their faces
until the very last, so it was said.
The only time they'll look you in the eye -
patterns of plaster on the sheepskin rug -
it's then you'll know that you're as good as dead.
Still carpeted, the flat had felt like a safe place
most days, although at night the noises started
and the locks got stronger. Now there was the dog.

At last, peace: dawn and a spreading silence,
fires burning out, maybe a car passing
and little else to be heard. By midday
one of us had ventured out, was standing
on the littered path, swiping the flies away.
The dog was there still, and the smell of the dog.
He called back, An accident. In the distance
a helicopter with one blade missing.