A Short-Cut To Joy: The Dog Poem by ATUL CHANDRA SARKAR

When they spot a dog
Anywhere all alone,
To hear the dog cry,
They pelt a stone.
The pain he suffers,
Is their source of joy,
Some bring a pup,
Instead of a toy.
When they’re fed-up,
They simply discard,
Who until yesterday,
Was their loyal guard.
Out on the streets,
They love to hit it and run,
Cruelty is their pleasure,
Being callous their fun.
Hungry and thirsty,
Manged, full of ticks,
Fractured here and there,
Beaten up with sticks.
Roasted in the sun,
Shelter-less in rain,
Licking its wounds,
It refuges in a drain.
Petrified day and night
By endless, hurtful flail,
The poor soul scurries
With tucked in tail.
Dashed by a vehicle,
Yelping to its end,
A bloated carcass,
Becomes a loyal friend!
Crushed under wheels,
Dishonored after death,
The symbol of gratitude
Until its last breath.
A crumb once given,
Who can never ever forget,
Do understand:
The short-cut to joy,
Is this mute pet.