We hear distinctive voices
like the Rolling Stones
from a pack of dogs
on a nearby parcel.

The lead singer in the band,
an English Bull Dog tethered
to the horse trailer growls
and gyrates like Jagger.

The German Shepherd,
secured to the shed,
whines and wails
like Richards’ lead guitar.

A basset hound chained
to an Ironwood barks
in a deep low tone
like Wyman’s bass guitar.

The booming voice
of the Golden Retriever
roped to the RV 
is loud as Watts drums.
.
The Siberian Huskey 
hitched to the horse trailer
howls like the harmonica
played by Jones.

As we listen to the concert,
my husband remembers
two dogs attacking him
on his paper route. 

Shows me the half moon
scar on his right calf
where a Collie tore flesh
when he was eight.

And he breaths hard
like he did at eleven
after a heavy hound
knocks him down
and sits on his chest
chewing through the bag
of newspapers protecting him
until the owner pulls it off

I was afraid of dogs for a long
time, he says, but now I watch
as he walks past the barking,
snarling pack of dogs 

while I stay inside, sweating
like in my sleep seven decades
after two large Labradors 
run out into the street snarling,

knocking me down, ripping
my clothes as I walk to school
day after day, year after year
and no one ever rescues me.
                        

The face of a fox swivels
over the spotted shoulder
of a bodacious bobcat body,

while the long tail of a tiger
tabby twitches as our guest
savors the smorgasbord

in the sunlight from our yard
in the Arizona desert
where a pack of coyotes

stalk and snatch squirrels
and small pets for snacks
under the cover of darkness.

This cat picks the chicken
carcass clean, bypassing
banana and cucumber peels,

before sharpening
its claws on the bark
of an Ironwood tree

and with the confidence
of a cougar strutting
on a catwalk, disappears

behind Mesquite bushes
Cholla and Saguaro
into the Arizona desert.