If a dog could speak,
he might look up at you and say:
āPlease
donāt call your human traitorā¦ a dog.
Donāt give our name
to those who lie,
who bite the hand
then kiss the air.
We donāt forget
a kindness once given
not a crust of bread,
not a warm place by the fire,
not a voice that called us friend.
We wait at the door
long after the footsteps fade.
We guard graves.
We sleep beside sorrow
without asking why.
When one of ours is hurt,
we circle close.
We bleed with them.
We never leave
unless weāre forced.
We donāt scheme.
We donāt pretend.
We donāt smile
with a knife behind our back.
So next time a human
sells love for pride,
abandons a friend in fear,
or forgets the one
who once saved them
Just call him Human.
For we know no other species
that buries loyalty
beneath convenience,
that trades truth
for applause,
that remembers insults
but forgets grace.
We,
with paws and silence,
would die for those
who once fed us.
You,
with words and reason,
sometimes ****
what you claim to love.
So do not stain our name
with betrayal.
Do not dress your disloyalty
in fur and fangs.
We are not like you.
And perhaps,
thatās why you love us.
Because somewhere,
in your better dreams,
you wish
you could be
a little more dog.ā
This poem gives voice to the silent loyalty of dogs, contrasting it with the conditional, often self-serving nature of human relationships. It challenges the use of ādogā as an insult, suggesting that even in their silence, animals often carry more integrity than those who speak.
