It’s Wednesday, it’s raining, and the dog needs to go out.

Billie – I’ll call her Billie – sings her soft blues now,
not a bark or a howl, but a throaty, torchy purr.
It’s Billie because I don’t want to give her real name,
and, thereby, give you a clue to her whereabouts.

You can tell by her Mata Hari eyes and her facial expression,
moody and fluid, she’s part of a witness protection program,
the source of her melancholy melody, a hint at her former life,
everything she had to leave behind after she spilled the beans.

It’s exciting to live with a dog that’s so important
she gave testimony against who knows whom?
Some organized crime boss, perhaps, or maybe
she worked for the CIA and now needs sanctuary.

I grab her leash, and she wags her tail to say the coast is clear.
I put on my raincoat, grab my umbrella, reach for the knob,
but, hesitating, instead of heading out the front door,
I lead Billie out the back way just in case someone’s watching us.

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