DOG IN CHAINS

This forlorn looking dog attracted my attention. The pooch inheritance was to be a servant and guard dog to a junkyard dealer. The owner, like most, only saw the dog as a means to protect his scrap metal and probably illegal copper stash. I walked over to see if the animal had a name tag. Through the fence I saw there was no shiny imprint that displayed the owner’s love, like Milo, Bella, or Patchy, my best friend. The pooch woofed his warning, and flexed its muscles. But its sad face pleads for freedom, which is just a stone’s throw over the Hottentot Holland Mountains behind him where the middle class farmers and the bourgeoisie spoil their animals. The mutt’s legacy like all those around him was being born on the wrong side of town.