Vet has been,
Kato injected in ribs and rump.
Despite indignity,
he has remained impressively cooperative.
All vim has leaked out, overnight
and he stands dejected,
head hung, pendulumed, stilled - along with other parts,
though there is a little of the rake, left,
still, for he chooses to disguise pain
by keeping weight off torn back foot, nonchalant
one-hoofed-tiptoe-ing as lad might prop
outside pub,
one foot hooked up behind, make comments on
passing lovelies - 'Show us yer tits.
Ahhh, go on!'
Poor old mate,
Vet has put recovery at 50/50,
stitching being out of the question, was never
an option. You've half-ripped dewclaw off,
mercifully not
split hoof or ground down to bone. Ankle is
raw-meat-rimmed, though -
recalling the cruelty of convict shackling.
Oh, and are you not a prisoner of sorts?
Hostage
to your bred purpose.
Designed for enthused, superhuman impregnation of harem-herd.
Even now,
though great, ruffed, leonine head droops exhausted,
yet, I do believe I detect
irrepressible twinkle in dark, roving eye? You wicked thing!

Oh, you're young.
You'll recover - get to bellow and strut,
be the darling of the adoring, doting mob...

now, for that fence...