The Doghouse

An ancient mutt lays stiffly on the floor of his prison.
His coat, matted though soft,
disturbed by the leaking roof of his house.
A drip on his nose hurries his conserved last breaths.
He shakes and whines, eyes open to the world
he can sense though not feel.
It rains outside, the sky open and thunder
     roaring.
He patiently waits for it to stop, though he
     sighs, knowing he'll never see it.
Grateful for the dark solitude of his doghouse,
so the world doesn't have to see how disgusting
he is.

He once loved the world, once lived in it.
It knew him as a
loving, wild pup,
and the heartbreak it would feel to see him
     now would be too much to handle, so
perhaps it's better that he remains unseen.

Dying alone in his doghouse
isn't the worst of all outcomes, though.
As there are far worse fates than death.
The nerves behind his tired paws freeze
As he waits in the cold,
He could leave, but why would he?
Afterall it's pouring out.
He makes an effort to look up to the ceiling of his small doghouse,
seemingly huge on the outside.
Outside, it's painted bright colors like
     yellow and green.
Prosperous in theory though
lacking much in fundamental truth.
Though it seems sturdy the
walls are caving on the inside, the
ceiling bowing downward,
leaking.
He came to the house to protect him.
He's just as wet inside as he would've been outside.
Now he dies.
Alone.
With pictures in his mind of chasing the rain.