“from the pov of a rescued dog”
i wait by the shoe rack, wag on low speed,
they pat my head and leave – like they always do.
the lock clicks twice, like a closing heartbeat,
then it’s just me, and the ticking, and the view.
the sunlight creeps in through the drawing-room lace,
it warms the floor where i sprawl and stare.
sometimes i bark at invisible things,
sometimes at echoes that aren’t really there.
by noon i’m pacing, checking the door,
wondering why it smells less like them.
the silence feels like it’s got sharp teeth,
and even my tail forgets how to wag then.
i nibble the toy that once had squeaks,
but now it just has memories and dust.
i curl up near their old worn shoes,
because even the smell of them feels like trust.
sometimes the neighbor kids giggle and shout,
dangling biscuits from their big white flat.
but i know that game – they won’t drop it down.
it’s not food, it’s just fun they’re laughing at.
once, i couldn’t hold it – i’m sorry for that.
they were late, and the tiles got wet.
i buried my nose in shame and fear,
thinking – “will they still love me yet?”
and when they go to “goa” or “rome,”
i know the brown bag with my leash means not home.
the kennel has bowls and smiles and beds,
but none of them sound like their footsteps.
still, i try to be brave, make friends and sit,
but at night i howl with my old street grit.
the concrete cold feels like déjà vu –
abandonment wears the same old shoe.
i’m jealous of kids with stay-at-home mums,
of lap dogs always getting picked up and swung.
i’m sorry i growl when they hug a stray,
i just don’t want to be replaced one day.
i was once a shivering pup in rain,
with bones for ribs and fleas for friends.
they gave me a name, a bed, a bowl,
and i promised them love that never ends.
so every time the sky turns gold,
and scooters hum and lift doors slide,
i rush to the entrance with all i’ve got –
just hoping it’s them on the other side.
they think i don’t know the days of the week,
but i do – weekends smell stronger of love.
those are the days when they stay home,
and i get belly rubs from the heavens above.
i don’t need words, i don’t need much –
just a gentle call, a familiar touch.
they may leave a hundred times or more,
but i’ll be waiting by the same old door.
through thunder, boredom, hunger, or sun,
with stitched-up toys and dreams that run –
no matter the silence, no matter the burn…
i’ll be here when you return.
Rishabh Dubey 'Kridious' 