Poetry
Animal Clinic
Paul Dilsaver
She took my precious pussy
to the venereal veterinarian
for shots.
He splayed it
on a steel table,
skewered it on a glass thermometer.
He peeled back its eyelids,
flashlighted its gums,
drew blood for inspection.
It fought like a lion:
clawed and scratched and sank teeth.
But the vet was prepared
with thick plastic cuffs
and a hard sense of humor.
"Kitty loves stink finger"
he snickered, cramming
a stick down its throat,
a swab up its ear.
Imagine his surprise
when he stuck
in his digit
up to the last joint,
then popped it out
wearing a golden band.
The flailing beast
had gone for his eyes
but found his heart.