The neighbour’s dog
trapped himself in our garden
and fastened his jaw to my face,
chowed down.
The neighbour hit the poor hound with a shovel,
leaving me with only a punctured lip
and not a proper mauling,
though Kelly-Anne said
I looked like a bomb victim.
I wiped bloody hands
down my white T-shirt
and went inside.
Dad was watching from the window.
That’ll stain if you don’t bleach it, he said,
and went back to stirring soup.
Later he argued with our neighbour
over the wall
about unsafe pets
and compensation.
If I’d had the shovel,
that dog wouldn’t still be barking.
I didn’t see the dog again:
they had it put down.
A week later Dad bought a watch on eBay.