Houndsight

His mouth waters at the crackling of the bag
as my hand encounters an awkward bone.
I unclench my fist, knowing that he’ll loan
me his existence. I watch the lever wag.

Spinning below squirrels and darting around the yard,
he chases each movement, seemingly out of reach.
His eyes begged not for treats; rather, he would beseech:
“Will you please tell me if being human is this hard?”

I respond no, and that I pity his life
but now wonder how much better it must be
to care about scents and intruders he’d see.
If only I could bark - these desires are rife.

With grass in his paws and iron slipping from his teeth
he pounds towards me with the sky resting above
and takes on new adventures as harmless as foxglove.
He no longer digs to discover what lies beneath.