CALL OF THE WILD

I pule and whimper. I hear a wild call.
We are a pack under a big city’s pall.
It’s guttural, growling, at first
Because I feel our Irish crest is cursed..

I whine about our busy den of late
With our baby brood of six under eight.
In ‘76 I squeak and squeal for transcendence.
Alpha too raises a yelping need for independence.

We’re platonic, romantic wolves of quirky thought,
From five year cycles of bad luck taught.
We’ll seek nirvana, Give up jobs and use up savings.
A quark of an idea moves us to justified ravings.

I snarled at children’s service raising my fears.
I howled about water twice for four months in five years,
Four inches on our basement floor, a fowl mess.
I growled over heat, hot water or plumbing - a weekly guess.

Deferred painting, roof leaks, floor tiles missing.
Months to clean, deodorize, rip up carpets from pissing.
"Shylocks are lawyers, realtors and surveyors," we yell.
A buyer’s market since poor maintenance can tell.

We sold at a loss and started packing.
Our freedom cry no enthusiasm lacking.
An affordable place (once a farm) was found,
Far away, in cruelest April we were bound.

Bed, two dressers, table, sofa and sleepless, we embarked
With cats, birds, dogs, pups and snake as big Dane barked.
Ten hours. Driving with drive shaft failing;
Whooping and playing our wild spirits not ailing.

The dog catcher proved our rude greeting
Upon arrival. Fine neighbors tattled, thus the meeting.
A poor beginning, a dogged depression, my full-mouthed cry
Over a jettisoned dream. We’re left to confront our choice or die.

Puling, snarling, howling, same cycle, new home.
We’re alpha wolf, his bitch and pups, a pack alone.
At the end of a curved, short lane, denned in and young.
Strong. Eight is enough. Our baying has just begun.