The worst kind of dog ain’t just dumb— 

he’s meaner’n hell, too. 

One of them hounds you’ll find chained up to a rusted-out tailgate soon as you pull into the coon club.

Yellow, wild-eyes sunk back like he’s seen enough for a lifetime and ain’t forgot none of it. Looks like he’s

halfway to the mange, with patchy hide and old scars torn across his muzzle. Ears hanging low, all nicked

and ragged at the edges—briars maybe, or coon teeth, or the bite of other dogs. I couldn’t tell you. 

He’ll curl that lip if you get too close, let out a low, bone-dry growl from somewhere deep in his throat.

Daddy used to call ‘em alligator hounds— 

said they was weaned on vinegar and spite, 

birthed mean from the bitch that brought ‘em in this world 

just to bite down hard on whatever come near 

and beg for a bullet between them eyes when it’s all said and done. 

​

I hated starin’ at dogs like that. 

Always prayed I wouldn’t have to cut my own hounds loose beside ’em— 

right there next to them bared, yellow teeth. 

Could hardly stomach it. 

‘Cause hell, if I’m bein’ honest... 

Some days I wanna bare my teeth just as damn bad. 

I feel that same snarl risin’ up in me, 

heat swellin’ in the tips of my ears. 

My chest and shoulders tense up on instinct, 

and I’m damn near lungin’ for the throat 

before I even think on it. 

I ain’t proud to say it, 

but I been that alligator hound 

more times than I care to count. 

​

I fuckin’ hate other men. 

Don’t matter if they’re greyed and decrepit, 

stout like me, 

or still suckin’ on their mama’s tit. 

Just like that hound, my meanness ain’t just territorial— 

it’s hostile. Vicious. 

Aimed square at any stud dog 

with them proud, low-hangin’ gonads 

and a stride to match. 

When you’ve spent your whole damn life 

on the losin’ end of another man’s ego, 

another man’s fragility,

another man’s selfishness, 

a snapped-open maw 

ready to clamp down on the nape of a neck 

starts to feel pretty damn justifiable. 

​

I ain’t always had it in me to be so mean. 

Got that from the stud dog who did a sorry job raisin’ me up.

Used to be soft at the underbelly, 

trailin’ for the gentler things. 

But that softness got scabbed over— 

got told it weren’t no way to be a man. 

So I learned how to bite, 

how to savor the clenched, violent pressure 

of an occupied jaw. 

I’m so damn bitter. 

Unflinchin’. Hateful. 

And God help me, 

sometimes I’m grateful for it. 

​

But it sure as hell don’t make me easy to love. 

Even the folks who share my name 

look at me sideways most days— 

like I’m more feral than kin. 

And the ones who tried to hold me close, 

who tried to caress that soft spot 

every mean dog’s still got, 

learned to pull back when I bared teeth. 

I don’t blame ‘em. 

​

What kind of scraps get left for an alligator hound? For a dog

whose meanness keeps settlin’ deeper in the marrow? I breathe

it now, taste it with every groan— 

every sink and rise of these hoarse lungs. 

I ain’t askin’ to be good. 

It’s too damn late for that now. 

I just wanna know if there’s still a rusted chain 

to hold the neck of an alligator hound like me—

and if there’s still mercy 

under the glow of a back porch light. 

​

God knows I need it. 

If I deserve it, 

I still can’t tell.