Porch Pooch

Hamilton. There are countless stray dogs riddled with mange limping these streets night and day.
Maybe some t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ p̶e̶o̶p̶l̶e̶ things just come here to die.
But did I?
No, I just came here to score again, limping down here like many have before me and so many will after.
I guess it might be similar, or perhaps even the same sometimes when I'm angsty and no one else's pain means anything real to me, which I guess would be all the time.
I feel mangy, under my cold-sweats jacket, through my birdnest hair and in my throbbing arms, riddled with tiny abscesses where the needle has failed me, or even I it.
Maybe I really am here to die.
Maybe I do belong here.
There are plenty of porches around here for me to crawl under, and I'm dying-dog sized for just such an occasion.
Everytime I'm standing on his, there's at least one other diseased animal there with me or sitting in their cars, scratching themselves and waiting for the pound again.
Take me out back and put one in me.
It is merciful.
It is necessary.
Everybody cried at the end of Ole' Yeller but I don't think it's going to be as sad