Unchained

He was living his life at the end of a chain,
Every day brought more of the same.
Thirty feet in any direction, an endless space for his
inspection.
 A rusty pail of dirty water
A pile of guts from a chicken slaughter.
A wooden box turned on its side
His shelter from the world outside.
And always swarming, big, black flies
sucking moisture from his eyes

But he was a good dog, I could tell,
Even though he lived in Hell.
And so that dark and moon-lit night
I climbed up to his resting place,
And as if he was expecting me
He squealed and licked my face.
I hugged his big head to my chest
and with a flourish set him free.
Then down the hill he raced with me.
And this we know, my dog and me,
Life's not worth living if you can't run free.