My violent little dog.

You are a violent little dog.

You are beautiful and sweet—and violent.

My velvet devil.

You run from lightning like you've felt it,

Humans, you have felt as well

but them; them you will turn and face.

So it was said to us that your life was not worth the inconvenience of your existence.

That you might live, breathe, give, and receive love was outweighed by the unpredictable nature of your heart.

Not worthy to live in this world we created. You do not fit neatly into our abstraction— An abstraction of an abstraction of something that was once known to be true.

Anxiety to the basset hound a picadillow. A death sentence for the pitbull.

Your yen for destruction too strong.

Your capacity and perceived need for defense too ingrained.

So, in the eyes of those who have seen your kind come and go with the regularity of Irish luck,

They say: It is good that you should die.

To them, I say: What of me?

Am I not scared?

Can I not kill?

Have my teeth not outpaced my patience more than once?

Would my execution be justice?

Am I worth the inconvenience that my living will bring?

What difference is there between us,

Is it more virtuous to be man?

Why? Utility? Look at what our utility has wrought. Is this ideal?

Love? You don’t know an animal’s love! To speculate is madness.

I like to think I know. I have faith. But I cannot know.

So what then—art?

What is art in the context of true time?

Not a year, or a hundred, or a billion—

But true time. The kind that cripples stars.

I would not trade such a paltry trinket for the life of my angel,

Not one second of it.

So why should she die, and I stay? No.

None or both must go.

This I say only once more— take heed.

None or both must go.