First Dog

Grownups had better things to do.
You got used to it, there was
the dog. The dog smelled terrible,
but you could not have loved her more.
You learned to think of yourself
in hypotheticals, in the second person,
but the dog was Shannon, she had
a name. She liked to swim, she shed
too much. In the woods she’d approach
anyone. Sometimes you walked her into
shadowy places where the babysitters
couldn’t find you. Perpetually petrified,
you learned early on to avoid them. 
Shannon wasn’t much of a guard dog,
but she was affectionate. Unlike the
babysitters who snarled, bared their
teeth, wandered through the house,
long-limbed monsters dragging
their coarse and knotty knuckles. 
Shannon hid under the bed,
you with a blanket in the closet.
After they found you, you moved
to the bathtub, then to the attic.
So, she didn’t technically save you.
Maybe no one could have, but you
had a witness. 
                              It was something.