Dog Songs (2 page)

What shall I do?

When I pick up the broom

he leaves the room.

When I fuss with kindling he

runs for the yard.

Then he’s back, and we

hug for a long time.

In his low-to-the-ground chest

I can hear his heart slowing down.

Then I rub his shoulders and

kiss his feet

and fondle his long hound ears.

Benny, I say,

don’t worry. I also know the way

the old life haunts the new.

and I should start shouting his name

and clapping my hands,

but it has been raining all night

and the narrow creek has risen

is a tawny turbulence is rushing along

over the mossy stones

is surging forward

with a sweet loopy music

and therefore I don’t want to entangle it

with my own voice

calling summoning

my little dog to hurry back

look, the sunlight and the shadows are chasing each other

listen how the wind swirls and leaps and dives up and down

who am I to summon his hard and happy body

his four white feet that love to wheel and pedal

through the dark leaves

to come back to walk by my side, obedient.

No use to tell him

that he

and the raccoon are brothers.

You have your soft ideas about nature

he has others,

and they are full of his

white teeth

and lip that curls, sometimes,

horribly.

You love

this earnest dog,

but also you admire the raccoon

and Lord help you in your place

of hope and improbables.

To the black-masked gray one:

Run!
you say,

and just as urgently, to the dog:

Stay!

and he won’t or he will,

depending

on more things than I could name.

He’s sure he’s right

and you, so tangled in your mind,

are wrong,

though patient and pacific.

And you are downcast.

And it’s his eyes, not yours,

that are clear and bright.

The university gave me a new, elegant

classroom to teach in. Only one thing,

they said. You can’t bring your dog.

It’s in my contract, I said. (I had

made sure of that.)

We bargained and I moved to an old

classroom in an old building. Propped

the door open. Kept a bowl of water

in the room. I could hear Ben among

other voices barking, howling in the

distance. Then they would all arrive—

Ben, his pals, maybe an unknown dog

or two, all of them thirsty and happy.

They drank, they flung themselves down

among the students. The students loved

it. They all wrote thirsty, happy poems.

Where goes he now, that dark little dog

who used to come down the road barking and shining?

He’s gone now, from the world of particulars,

the singular, the visible.

So, that deepest sting: sorrow. Still,

is he gone from us entirely, or is he

a part of that other world, everywhere?

Come with me into the woods where spring is

advancing, as it does, no matter what,

not being singular or particular, but one

of the forever gifts, and certainly visible.

See how the violets are opening, and the leaves

unfolding, the streams gleaming and the birds

singing. What does it make you think of?

His shining curls, his honest eyes, his

beautiful barking.

I
N THE OLD DAYS
dogs in our town roamed freely. But the old ways changed.

One morning a puppy arrived in our yard with a length of rope hanging from his collar. He played with our dogs; eventually he vanished. But the next morning he showed up again, with a different rope attached. This happened for a number of days—he appeared, he was playful and friendly, and always accompanied by a chewed-through rope.

Just at that time we were moving to another house, which we finished doing all in one evening. A day or so later, on a hunch, I drove back to the old house and found him lying in the grass by our door. I put him in the car and showed him where our new house was. “Do your best,” I said.

He stayed around for a while, then was gone. But there he was the next morning at the new house. Rope dangling. Later that day his owner appeared—with his papers from the Bideawee home, and a leash. “His name is Sammy,” she said. “And he’s yours.”

As Sammy grew older he began to roam around the town and, as a result, began to be caught by the dog officer. Eventually, of course, we were summoned to court, which, we learned quickly, was not a place in which to argue. We were told to build a fence. Which we did.

But it turned out that Sammy could not only chew through ropes, he could also climb fences. So his roaming continued.

But except for the dog officer, Sammy never got into trouble; he made friends. He wouldn’t fight with other dogs, he just seemed to stay awhile in someone’s yard and, if possible, to say hello to the owners. People began to call us to come and get him before the dog officer saw him. Some took him into their houses to hide him from the law. Once a woman on the other end of town called; when I got there she said, “Can you wait just a few minutes? I’m making him some scrambled eggs.”

I could tell many more stories about Sammy, they’re endless. But I’ll just tell you the unexpected, joyful conclusion. The dog officer resigned! And the next officer was a different sort; he too remembered and missed the old days. So when he found Sammy he would simply call him into his truck and drive him home. In this way, he lived a long and happy life, with many friends.

This is Sammy’s story. But I also think there are one or two poems in it somewhere. Maybe it’s what life was like in this dear town years ago, and how a lot of us miss it.

Or maybe it’s about the wonderful things that may happen if you break the ropes that are holding you.

Our new dog, named for the beloved poet,

ate a book which unfortunately we had

left unguarded.

Fortunately it was the
Bhagavad Gita,

of which many copies are available.

Every day now, as Percy grows

into the beauty of his life, we touch

his wild, curly head and say,

“Oh, wisest of little dogs.”

You’re like a little wild thing

that was never sent to school.

Sit, I say, and you jump up.

Come, I say, and you go galloping down the sand

to the nearest dead fish

with which you perfume your sweet neck.

It is summer.

How many summers does a little dog have?

Run, run, Percy.

This is our school.

He puts his cheek against mine

and makes small, expressive sounds.

And when I’m awake, or awake enough

he turns upside down, his four paws

in the air

and his eyes dark and fervent.

“Tell me you love me,” he says.

“Tell me again.”

Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over

he gets to ask.

I get to tell.

And now Percy is getting brazen.

“Let’s down the beach, baby,” he says.

“Let’s shake it with a little barking.

Let’s find dead things, and explore them,

by mouth, if possible.”

Or maybe the leavings of Paul’s horse (after which,

forgive me for mentioning it, he is fond of kissing).

Ah, this is the thing that comes to each of us.

The child grows up.

And, according to our own ideas, is practically asunder.

I understand it.

I struggle to celebrate.

I say, with a stiff upper lip familiar to many:

Just look at that curly-haired child now, he’s his own man.

Just before Percy had his operation

he had one long rendezvous with a

little dog named Penny. As it happened

there was no result. But, oh, how

Percy smiled and smiled all the way

home.

Percy wakes me and I am not ready.

He has slept all night under the covers.

Now he’s eager for action: a walk, then breakfast.

So I hasten up. He is sitting on the kitchen counter

where he is not supposed to be.

How wonderful you are, I say. How clever, if you

needed me,

to wake me.

He thought he would hear a lecture and deeply

his eyes begin to shine.

He tumbles onto the couch for more compliments.

He squirms and squeals; he has done something

that he needed

and now he hears that it is okay.

I scratch his ears, I turn him over

and touch him everywhere. He is

wild with the okayness of it. Then we walk, then

he has breakfast, and he is happy.

This is a poem about Percy.

This is a poem about more than Percy.

Think about it.

What do you say, Percy? I am thinking

of sitting out on the sand to watch

the moon rise. It’s full tonight.

So we go

and the moon rises, so beautiful it

makes me shudder, makes me think about

time and space, makes me take

measure of myself: one iota

pondering heaven. Thus we sit, myself

thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s

perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich

it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,

leans against me and gazes up into

my face. As though I were just as wonderful

as the perfect moon.