He Slapped A Sleeping Dog Poem by Job Ombati

He smacked a street dog—
right across its ear.

The dog didn't have a chance
to bark.
But it counter-assaulted:
bit him,
tearing a chunk of meat
from his thigh.

Now he limps.
And whenever he sneezes,
he barks
like a street dog.

Was he never warned?
Sleeping dogs
are better left sleeping.

Did he heed the warning
that dogs
need their peace?

Did he care
that he'd need
all his body parts intact
and his sneeze whole?

Did he ever care to think
that dogs
never gave a hoot
of his drunken mischief?

He believed
all street dogs
needed a trashing—
bare-handed,
hard-booted,
whipped.

Whichever way,
the lesson could be delivered.
They had to be out of the street.
Despicable!

The lesson
had been delivered,
learned
by many a dog
for eons—
but not this one.

This one
unlike the rest,
defying timidity,
rose—
and claimed its pound of flesh.

© Poems for Humanity

[Sunday,20 September 2025 - 3: 09 p.m., Nairobi]