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Mitch, what makes you tick, big black dog with sad brown eyes
abandoned, starving, on a highway deep in Georgia?
Who knows what you endured in your chain-link hell.
Clearly it’s something you’d rather not talk about.
You are so self-contained.
“Cat-like,” Sandy says.
Other dogs madly chase balls. Not you.
Other dogs swim. Though first cousin to the seal, not you.
Other dogs love tugs of war. Not you.
It is possible you secretly work for Harvard University
cataloguing scents? No bush leaves this scholar indifferent.
Every tree intrigues.
But mostly you lay there fast asleep.
No grand thoughts.
No great theories.
No profound attempts to
understand the canine—or human–condition, and
how they intersect.
Occasionally you’ll find a new spot to crash if we pet you too much–and,
you are so very pettable.
I hear you, dear Mitch. You are telling me:
“If perchance you have something for
me, like Leakhena or Ethan appearing to call me ‘Pup Pup!’ or a walk or
a snack, wake me up. Then I’ll display the excitement I know you crave.
Otherwise let me lie.”
Nor is there much bark in you, except when a stranger comes to call, Then
you’ll let him have it before running upstairs to hide, utterly
forgetting you are part rottweiller.
All told you are a great guy. Kind. Never a bad word for anyone, and
so patient in training us, as you pull us on the leash, or refuse to budge,
or shake your collar for yet another treat.
You just want your two squares a day. You just want us by your side, at all times.
To sleep across our bed in full sprawl.
Is that really demanding so much?
you seem to be asking between snores,
as you pick your head up, cock your ear, and
look deeply into our souls.
July 2012