Furless

The kennel shaved my dog last September. It’s August now

And her long, fluffy, white hair hasn’t all returned. It’s abandoned

The line of her spine, giving her some sort of weird, reverse mohawk.

“What happened to your dog?” people ask, kind, sturdy people who aren’t afraid

To talk to strangers wearing masks, walking giant dogs with bad hair.

“She sprang out of the womb like this,” I say.

“Genetic deformity. COVID. Politicians. She gets stressed

By too much hate.” My grief over her fur is radical

As she jaunty-walks down sidewalks in our tourist town,

Leading me around as she sniffs bushes, pees on lilies.

The unafraid people follow her with their eyes.