Ruth’s Story

I am a non-descript dog, mixed DNA from dozens of breeds. Thin but colored like a beagle. I had a terrible puppyhood. Abandoned in a hoarder’s house with fifteen dogs. Two were dead. I am afraid of boots, loud noises, and men.  People put me on a bus trip from a Louisiana kill shelter to Vermont. The old woman who welcomed me seemed to understand why I pee on everything. All submissive and snipey-nosed. My woman takes me every Wednesday from 4:30 to 5:30 to what she calls a protest. We sit in front of the National ICE Data Center in Williston, Vermont. Other old people sit in a row. None of them talk. Some of them lean signs about immigrants against their legs. She says they meditate, but she whispers in my ear. I quiver. That’s what I do when I’m not at home. I hate cars honking at us. She says she is afraid too. That what goes on inside that mirror-windowed building terrifies people. That she will take care of me, feed me, cuddle me no matter what. She lists the what’s: soldiers coming in noisy trucks, sick people losing hope, children torn from parents, bad people hurting good people. She says words like war, invasion, training grounds. Sounds like boots kicking my face. I’m glad I’m a dog.

This article was posted on Sunday, November 30th, 2025 at 8:00am and is filed under Poetry.