by June Cotner
we have longed to roll in it,
as the black dog does now,
four legs flailing at air, tongue lolling,
head dancing side to side,
all the full-out running and leaping
abandoned to this?
CB Follett
Mother of Dog
I want to buy him
a lunch pail,
notebook paper,
pencils, and
some spiffy kid clothes.
Instead I buy him a T-shirt that says
RESPECT THE NOSE.
I’ll teach him the new math,
the old rules for playing with others.
He’ll be the envy
of all the mothers.
He won’t stick chewing gum under his desk.
He won’t pass notes in class.
He might eat his homework.
For him, life is recess.
Kelly Cherry
At Limantour Beach
The old dog celebrates.
Sniffs high. Races to the water
and runs a tight circle in the shallows,
two, three, and then another.
She lowers her shoulder
to an Irish green swatch of sea lettuce.
She will roll in it, if she can,
if we let her, and wear it
as a badge of this day.
A day she always dreams of, by the fire,
legs churning on the rug—a beach day.
She can never get enough. Every beach
is another notch in her dreamtime.
She selects a rock, smoothed and oval,
carries it dangling from her mouth
like a talisman.
It is a digging rock. She drops it.
Chases it with her paws, poking her nose
in to scent its trail.
Her gray muzzle is thick with sand,
her legs, and around her eyes.
Her tongue is sandpaper, coarse grit.
By the third hole, she must sink to rest
every eight paw strokes, or so,
haunches perched on the slag of her own mining.
We spend the whole day at the beach,
marking the water’s edge with a long line
of holes and heaps.
Tonight, while she runs
before the fire, the tide will rise
and replace all her divots.
CB Follett
When Dogs Go Astray
Where are you tonight? Chasing night critters
in the woods, eating food left on a patio
for felines on the lam, sleeping on a stranger’s
patio cushions? I find comfort only
in knowing that you are together, my phone number
woven into your collars. I’m puzzled. How did
you get out of our fenced backyard? Did
some workman checking phone or cable lines leave
the gate ajar, just enough for you to make a break
for it when he wasn’t looking? O Bartleby!
O Melville! Why couldn’t you have been content
to smell unfamiliar shoes, to accept a pat on the head
or to protect our yard from an intruder. You’re not
West Highland Terriers for nothing, born to hunt,
born to follow rabbits and rodents to their secure dens,
oblivious to your own needs in the heat
of the hunt. I have to believe you’ll turn up
on someone’s back step, begging to come inside
a stranger’s house. Please choose a dog lover who
won’t keep you from those who wait for your call.
Rosanne Osborne
Dog Running with His Man
For the sleek golden retriever, it is relief,
this bounding along the shore with his man.
Most of the time, it is all he can do to keep
his nerves within his skin, being assaulted
as he is every second of his life with
gorgeous smells, a constant heady flooding
from the world. It rushes at his too-keen nose:
sea salt, dead fish, rich green weeds
left behind by fingers of tide.
So much! The tingling edges of pine forest,
urines sprayed on every tree, sweet
sting of dung, bird tracks and tracks of other dogs
pressed lightly in wet sand, a bit of salami
to the left, dropped from a picnic, faint wood smoke
from a distant bonfire, and oh, the high he gets
from a whiff of female canine musk. Impossible
to know what to do with such happiness,
what he perpetually wants but can barely bear.
How it propels his fast, muscled flanks,
makes his ribs heave, his tongue pant.
At the end of the run, the man bends down,
offers a good boy, pats the young dog, his simple
loyal companion, never knowing
all that he carries, all that he craves.
Joanne Esser
Daisy
She has not
turned Lassie/Rin Tin Tin
to save us from
certain death.
She’s never been featured
on Animal Miracles
or the evening news
for rescuing a child from a fire,
preventing a car crash, or
running impossible miles
to tell some former owner
that he is in trouble
or to ask why he abandoned her.
She has never
collared a criminal,
although she’s spent time in a cell
for the sin of being homeless—
a menace to the public,
running at large,
begging and unruly,
matted hair dragging from her back legs,
beard as wild as an Old Testament prophet’s.
Sentenced to death at the county shelter,
she was reborn, got a second chance
to visit wild places
and roll in piles of leaves,
discover new scents on wooded hikes,
and occasionally get into the trash
because everybody’s entitled
to a little backsliding
now and then.
Karen R. Porter
Outside, Wanting In
His paw a blur of motion
scratching on the screen.
Outside, wanting in.
Door opened, he bounds
across the room, tail beating greetings,
nuzzling us, tongue dangling,
circles twice, thuds to the floor
at our feet, sighs, relaxes content.
Until . . .
a vagrant squirrel hurls insults from the oak
or a supercilious cat twitches right across
the lawn which belongs to him,
or a mysterious shadow slants
across the porch perhaps signaling danger.
At once he’s up again, barking,
crashing pell-mell to the door, pawing,
glancing imploringly over his shoulder.
Inside, wanting out.
SUZANNE C. COLE
When Opportunity Knocks
I was doing some spring clean-up in my front yard under the supervision of my border collie Sneeks when my neighbor pulled up in her driveway and began unloading groceries from the rear seat of her vehicle. Burdened with one load, the neighbor
headed toward her house, leaving the rear driver’s side door of her vehicle wide open.
Sneeks took this as an invitation and darted toward the car, ignoring my frantic calls. I raced off in pursuit, visualizing torn grocery bags and fresh produce strewn across the neighbor’s yard. To my surprise, Sneeks simply leaped into the back seat, ignoring the groceries and sat quietly, on her best behavior.
I laughed when I realized her motivation—she was hoping to go for a car ride!
Lisa Timpf
Sweeter Than Honey
Our dog has developed an addiction
to paper. It started innocently enough with
the dirty tissue a woman walking just ahead of us
accidentally dropped in his path one day
much to his delight. Not long after this,
he discovered dinner napkins, toilet paper rolls,
and book jackets. Most recently, I caught him
nosing around in our green clay pitcher that
used to contain all one hundred and fifty psalms,
typed up and individually folded like so many
fortunes, waiting to be read. One by one
he is making his way through the songs of thanksgiving,
prayers of lament, and hymns of coronation.
Always careful to leave enough time
for three daily naps, a chew on his bone,
and the occasional bark at our neighbor’s daring cat.
How sweet are your words to my taste, O God, sweeter
than honey to my mouth. To which I say: A-hem.
Lisa Dordal
The Science of Faith
Every day except Sunday for five years
Sal tossed my dog a treat as he delivered our mail.
Then he was promoted to a desk job.
It’s been months since Sal delivered
but when the dog hears the little white truck
coming up the rise, she stills runs to the mailbox.
There she waits as the truck drives to the end
of the road and turns around, the white tip
of her tail whipping the air faster and faster
as it comes back her way, her whole body
wiggling with joy when the mailman stops,
sticks a handful of mail in the box, then
nothing.
The tail slows to a sway,
slows even more as the truck pulls away.
There she stands
head turned to the empty road
tail still as the pendulum of an unwound clock.
My husband calls it operant conditioning.
I say it’s the science of faith,
hope stirred by memory and desire.
Patti Tana
Lost Dog
It’s just getting dark, fog drifting in,
damp grasses fragrant with anise and mint,
and though I call his name
until my voice cracks,
there’s no faint tinkling
of tag against collar, no sleek
black silhouette with tall ears rushing
toward me through the wild radish.
As it turns out, he’s trotted home,
tracing the route of his trusty urine.
Now he sprawls on the deep red rug, not dead,
not stolen by a car on West Cliff Drive.
Every time I look at him, the wide head
resting on outstretched paws,
joy does another lap around the racetrack
of my heart. Even in sleep
when I turn over to ease my bad hip,
I’m suffused with contentment.
If I could lose him like this every day
I’d be the happiest woman alive.
Ellen Bass
Unleashed
Oh you are a beautiful flash of purpose
as you race toward the geese,
scattering them, every one. The wide
arc of their furious flapping, their loud
squawking, their berating, their clamorous
lifting is like great bells of hammered brass
ringing out in the Church of Brave Terriers
on The Day of Infinite Bones. And you,
my brown and white bullet burning with joy,
you are magnificent as a ringer of bells.
Please, allow me to be your student,
let me learn to be as purely alive as you.
Ginny Lowe Connors
Dog Outside a Grocery on Broadway
It was how he waited
how he waited where somebody told him to wait
how he paced outside the grocery store
how he tugged on the leash tied to the signpost
how he looked at the man coming out of the store
how he looked at the glass door swinging shut
how he looked at the man tearing cellophane off a pack of cigarettes
how he looked at the cellophane falling on the sidewalk
how he looked at the girl stuffing a red purse in her pocket
how he looked at the old lady opening an umbrella at the crosswalk
how he looked at the boy who looked at him through the window of a bus
how he looked at the bus turning the corner out of view
how he sat down on the sidewalk and got up again
how he pushed his nose against the glass door
how he scratched behind his ear
how he waited
Joan I. Siegel
Reflections on a Dog’s World
Scratch a dog and you’ll find a permanent job.
Franklin P. Jones
You can’t keep a good man down—or an overly affectionate dog.
Author unknown
The dog was created especially for children.
He is the god of frolic.
Henry Ward Beecher
To err is human,
To forgive, canine.
Author unknown
Puppy Love
Happiness is a warm puppy.
Charles M. Schulz
There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face.
Ben Williams
Whoever said you can’t buy
happiness forgot little puppies.
Gene Hill
Puppy Dog Welcome
Bunny-hop gallop,
with dance-happy eyes,
Fly-swatting tail,
with glad-you’re-home smiles,
Snort-like greetings,
with padded-paw embrace,
Slobber-lick kisses
planted all over your face.
Joan Marie Arbogast
Puppy Days
Bless this frisky puppy
Who’s into everything
His playful fresh behavior
Is like a day in spring
Remind me to be patient
When he’s chewed another book
Or races through the living room
With a newly laundered sock
He loves without condition
Gives me kisses every day
And greets me with a wagging tail
After I have been away
Like any other baby
He needs a lot of rest
When he falls asleep curled next to me
I know that I am blessed
Louise Webster
Higher Learning
I put him out four times this morning,
let him fetch the paper, walked him
round the block, but still the puppy
peed twice on the kitchen fl
oor—
great, spreading puddles of gold
that soaked into the doormat.
He looks at me with the eyes
of an assistant professor up for tenure,
hopeful about his classroom evaluations,
his latest research. If nothing else,
he thinks we should retain him for his warm
collegiality and service to the institution.
But he is merely plotting where to poop next.
No limit to the academic freedoms
of a dog these days, no end
to the publication of alimentary happiness.
Paul Willis
His
My puppy’s small cries
have crept beneath the sill of my sleep
like such sad little crickets
that I have had to
spring him from his crate
and take him into my bed.
With the soft pads of his paws
pressed to my nose
I smell puppy smell
until we both wag ourselves silly
and he yawns a big puppy
my-head’s-too-heavy yawn
and curls himself about my head.
In this gentlest of coronations,
I am crowned—His.
Linda Opyr
Homecoming
Whether I’ve been halfway around the world or just out to the mailbox, Jenny’s greeting upon my return is equally enthusiastic. I hear her prepare for my arrival as I walk across the garage. First, there’s the gentle thud as she leaps off the couch in the family room above me, then the clicking of toenails as she races across the tiles on the kitchen floor, and finally the thawp-thawping of her sturdy tail against the walls in our tiny mudroom. By the time I open the back door, Jenny’s tail is moving so fast and furiously, her entire body is wiggling and waggling. She leans into me, nearly taking me out at the knees as she does so, as though she just can’t get close enough. She looks up at me, golden eyes shining with pure joy. It’s always a perfect homecoming.
Christine Otto Hirshland
Rescue Dog
I often wonder just who rescued whom.
Ostensibly, I am the rescuer. I searched for weeks to find just the right dog who most needed me. I filled out detailed adoption papers and drove a hundred miles to meet his foster family. When they decided we were a good fit, I brought him home where I provide for his basic needs and then some, showering him with attention and affection. In short, I welcomed him into my home and my heart.
