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Grays Best

Pomeranian Pandemonium Print E-mail

A poem
by Wally McCalll

If you move to west Montana, you’ll find living there is hard,
And death is just as random as the turning of a card.
It’s wide high-desert country that’s as dry as weathered bones
That lie scattered in the sagebrush with the tumbleweeds and stones.
The winter wind will freeze your soul; the sun will boil your blood.
The melting snow and pelting rain churn dirt to sucking mud.
Large predators will eat you if they catch you unawares:
Coyotes, wolves, and lions; vicious black and grizzly bears.
But the greatest danger out there in this whole wild western scene,
Lives lurking in a trailer in a town they named Sixteen.
It’s kind of like a ghost town; if you leave you don’t come back,
But there lives Bill McDonald and his Pomeranian pack.
At last count he had fifty-two, but no one knows for sure,
Since their bloodlines and genetics are a little bit obscure.
There’s one thing that’s for certain, they are not to be ignored,
’Cause these furry little vermin are a vile bloodthirsty horde.
They devour living creatures like piranha do in streams,
And while tearing tiny mouthfuls they ignore their victim’s screams.
Until at last there’s silence save their panting little lungs
And the licking of their whiskers with their pinkish little tongues.
Now right by downtown Sixteen there’s a four-strand barbed-wire fence
With a gate that Bill’s chained up and locked without much common sense.
Since no one ever goes there, unless they’ve got the right
To hunt or graze their cattle which is pretty black and white.
One time in late November when we’d gone out there to hunt,
We had to drive by Sixteen, and to be completely blunt
I felt the terror building with a churning in my guts
When I thought about a faceoff with Bill’s mob of manic mutts.
Maybe it was destiny or maybe it was fate,
But Walter drew the short straw so he had to get the gate.
He bolted from the truck door with the key clutched in his fist
When he heard the first crescendo through the early-morning mist.
A furry wave advancing; a tsunami at full flood.
The canine avalanche advanced fueled by its lust for blood.
When charging at full throttle, all amassed for its attack,
There is nothing more ferocious than a Pomeranian pack.
We really thought he’d make it, that he wouldn’t have a scratch,
But that moment’s hesitation when he fumbled with the latch
Gave the alpha male an opening, sharp teeth caught a woolen cuff;
Then half a hundred more piled on, and things got really rough.
Gilbert muttered softly, in his heavy Southern drawl,
“Now isn’t that some friggin’ shit and everything and all.”
We knew we couldn’t help him. We figured he was done,
When suddenly, behind us, the explosion of a gun.
And there stood Bill McDonald with his trusty forty-four,
Who had arrived there just in time to even up the score.
When we expressed our gratitude, Bill looked us in the eye,
“I don’t know why you’d thank me. I was aimin’ fer the guy!”
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