KC Murphy
and the
Dog from Hell

The oldest one of Murphy’s sons – the one they named “KC”,
would rise each morn to the task he’d sworn – tossing papers for a fee.

He’d hit the road with a basket load he rolled the night before,
for a five-mile ride through the countryside – a fairly daunting chore.

He’d make the trip at a modest clip – almost all the way,
but a dreaded trial on the final mile would always spoil his day.

It never failed – he’d be assailed as he passed a certain farm,
when he’d cause a stir with a ball of fur that was bound to do him harm.

That little hound of thirty pounds would crouch behind a well,
then come on fast like a cannon blast from the fiery gates of hell.

KC knew what the dog would do – it was like that every day,
he’d just take heed – increase his speed to ensure he’d get away.

It took his breath – but the jaws of death held a fate much more severe,
and he felt quite sure he’d not endure if he didn’t hit high gear.

On one day’s run, old Murphy’s son was caught a bit off guard,
he was near the farm – in the midst of harm, but he wasn’t pedaling hard.

A dog they say will have his day and it looked like this was his,
with a slight head start, that dog would dart – as fierce as any griz.

Soon he’d know he was going too slow to guarantee escape,
so he raised his feet above the seat to avoid a painful scrape.

His mounting fear as the dog drew would make him lose control,
but not before the dog would score – though his bite would take no toll.

The one small fact that KC lacked, as for teeth – the dog had none,
and when he bit – some doggy spit was the only damage done.

In the end – the crash would send them both head over heels,
a tumbling mesh of fur and flesh beneath a pair of wheels.

Un-amused and slightly bruised from such an ardent chase,
in a roadside rut – a boy and mutt just sat there face to face.

From where he’d be, he’d clearly see the dog was not a threat,
his eyes were glazed with bluish haze – half blind, a likely bet.

A threatening growl and warrior’s scowl were the only tools he had,
matted hair from a lack of care – and his breath was really bad.

Every day they’d meet that way, but knowing what he’d learned,
he’d masquerade and act afraid, but he wasn’t too concerned.

The dog he’d feared just wasn’t geared for inflicting any pain,
and though his chum could only gum – he’d speed up just the same.

Though KC knew he couldn’t chew – his attack was all in fun,
he’d not neglect to show respect – to let him think he’d won.

A toothless bite meant a bloodless fight – but KC wouldn’t tell,
it was a secret shared by a boy who cared –
and the little dog from hell.