Michael O’Loughlin

In the hours after his rescue, or capture, he dined on boiled chicken and then lay down to sleep in his favourite sheepskin basket, snoring a little.

Often I look into his eyes and try to imagine what he was thinking about on those long nights and days without his food bowl, his basket and without his people.

Kumo's favourite spot in our apartment is a corner of the living room with panoramic windows, offering an uninterrupted view of the Dublin and Wicklow Mountains, where, not so long ago, wolves roamed.

As he gazed out, who knows what ancient longing was sparked in his brain.

In that, perhaps, he is more human than we think.

Why do people go on Mad Ones, make a break for it, head for the hills?

Who knows?

It's a mystery, and I tried to explain it to myself by writing this poem.

The Runaway Dog Something broke, an oath, a rope, a yoke.

I turned to look when they called my name, but they weren't them.

I skedaddled through the woods and loped uphill to the Hellfire Club.

I follow the tale of a thousand and one cents, each one leading to the next, spur without end.

The hills are purple with smells, a psychedelic nightclub I never want to leave.

I am Kumo.

I run amok.

I drink from ditches and puddles.

I dine on dead crow wing and horses' droppings.

At night, the wolves and whippets run in me along the road.

I hide from the eyes of the cars.

By day I go to ground, a son of the earth.