As a kid, maybe seven or eight,
I coaxed cats and dogs home, strays, mutts.
Those beautiful eyes,
sadder than any song I’d ever heard,
tiny claws, noses that smelled the earth.
I believed in fairy tales then,
raised on Mother Goose
and the Brothers Grimm.
I thought we’d all live happily ever after
or get eaten by some strange beast
while learning a valuable lesson.
Mom let them in.
The puppies chewed coffee table legs
while the cats pissed everywhere.
I smiled anyway,
thinking I could clutch forever
in my hands.
Summer came.
I went to Dad’s—
Iowa Falls or the cattle ranch in Missouri.
Early mornings, I’d find tortoises
grazing in the garden,
chewing lettuce,
chomping tomatoes.
I’d lift them up,
study their grumpy faces,
the underside of the shell—
a burnt orange sunset cupped in my hands.
I’d name them for the month: June, July, August.
Then I’d build a fence. Claim them.
Next morning—nothing.
Vanished like the last sip of beer.
They needed their land,
their distance,
their ancient map of vegetation and instinct.
I didn’t know then that life demands freedom.
Summer would end.
I’d head back to Mom’s for the school year.
When I walked in, I’d search the house, the yard,
frantic for the cats and dogs.
They were gone.
I’d ask Mom what she did with them.
She’d look away and say, I found them good homes.
I didn’t ask questions.
I told myself that’s how fairy tales go—
one way or the other.
I loved blindly, like the grass loves green.
A love without muscle is just hunger.
The pattern stalked me into adult houses,
into women with feral eyes and jagged hearts,
souls slipping into the abyss.
I wanted them,
worshipped them,
studied them like I studied the tortoises.
But booze was my true god.
Vodka. Beer. Whiskey.
Their burn seduced me,
spun me onto the lost, degenerate highway.
I drank to numb the scratches on my soul,
to laugh at the claw marks left by their absence.
I couldn’t take care of them.
I couldn’t hold them the way they needed to be held.
I couldn’t love them—
hell, I couldn’t even love myself.
They were better off somewhere else.
Better off without me.
That lesson punches now,
right to the gut—
a Tyson left hook.
Love alone is a stray pup,
a mutt wandering in the rain.
Cats. Dogs. Tortoises. Women.
All sent warnings I blew off.
Now I sit with empty hands,
count the lives I failed to cherish,
and finally understand:
love without care
is just another ghastly
Brothers Grimm story.