Dog Disputes the Existence of God

Dog, knowing his name spelled backwards
is God, still has doubts. Would a rational, beneficent

God create Pomeranians? Dog doesn’t think so.
Six of them tangle now on the other side of the fence,

a chaotic, irritating Pilobolus of ratdog fury, gone
berserk over the simple fact that Dog is lifting

his leg on the rhododendron in their front yard.
The sound is that of rabid mosquitoes on meth…

not pleasant. But with God, one never knows. Perhaps
they are yet another test, tedious as this gets, being

Job. Perhaps He has His reasons. Dog wanders
away from the glistening rhodi leaves, the nightmarish

noise and looks to the sky, pewter as usual. Why Pomeranians?
Dog asks silently, Why? He realizes this question, although

in other languages, other forms, has been asked
a million times before, and will be asked a million

times again. And that no answer will ever come, no
answer clear as a righteous bark on a moonlit night.