Traitor to Sheba

In my mind: a little Shepherd bitch

I owned a very long time ago. She’s dead.

I took her to be put down.

Now, in make-believe, she wants out—

out of a cage in some animal enclave,

a cage she never occupied, really,

but one that is cruelly confining, cold.

She sees me and yelps. 

She knows we know

who each other are

and what is right.

What shall I do? 

This is not substantive.

How can there be any question about it?

One choice costs no more than the other.

Or does it? My guilt and discomfort weigh.