The dog, dying of cancer,
Walked into the guest room
Where I was trying to sleep.
He wasn’t there because
Of me. The rug on the floor
Belonged to him.
He fell asleep so I fell
Asleep. Or maybe it was
The other way around.
Hours later, he woke me
With his whimpers. I thought
he was inside a nightmare,
But, no, he was awake
And in pain from
The incurable tumors
in his belly. I called
His name and, being
A good dog, he slowly
Rose and walked to me.
I scratched behind his
Ears. I petted his head.
I told him I was sad
That he was hurting.
But he seemed to be
Offended by my pity.
He walked away, laid
Back down on his
Rug, and passed gas.
And, yes, I know
That’s funny, almost
Slapstick, but his body
Was betraying him.
The flatulence was foul.
I’d been in the presence
Of people dying of cancer.
I knew that smell.
The dog bent his head
And body back at
His ass, took in the odor,
And growled, growled
At Death, that terrible guest,
Who was always looking
To demand and impose.
The dog angrily fled
The room and I went back
To sleep. The next day,
My friends took their dog
For one last walk
That surprisingly became
A run. The dog, near his
Terminus, somehow found
The strength to loudly
Chase every bird
For an hour or two.
And then, exhausted,
Had to be carried
Back to his home.
That afternoon,
My friends ferried
Their dog for his last
Visit to the vet.
They hugged him close
As he was euthanized.
My friends wept,
Then came home,
Went into their bedroom,
And wept more
Behind their door.
I wanted to stay,
But my family and friends
Were waiting for me
Back in my home city.
I didn’t want to interrupt
My friends’ grief,
So I handwrote
A condolence note,
Illustrated it with
A winged cartoon dog,
And carefully left it
On their kitchen table.
It seemed childish
To memorialize
That beautiful dog
With amateur art.
And it still seems
Childish all these years
Later. But it was the only
Thing I could think to do.
Maybe grief turns
All of us into amateurs.
As my friends continued
To weep, I packed my bag
And took a yellow cab
To the airport. I was
Late for my flight,
And was sure I’d miss it,
But I made it onboard
Moments before
They closed the door.
As the plane ascended,
I thought about how
Many times that I’ve visited
All of my friends, for hours
Or days, and then left
Their homes. That’s how
Life is supposed to work.
Friendship celebrates
Arrivals and mourns
Departures. That’s when
We learn how greatly
Or inadequately
That we love outside
Of ourselves. As the plane
Rose higher, I thought
Of the friends that I’d lost
To time and temper.
As I’ve aged, I’ve lost
Many friends to death.
I’ve lost friends because
Of their selfishness
And I’ve lost other friends
Because of my arrogance.
And, O, as a child, I lost
So many adored dogs
To the violence
Of my poverty town.
My dogs were poisoned.
My dogs were torn
Apart by feral dogs.
My dogs were shot
By frustrated hunters
Who didn’t get their deer.
Some of my dogs
Just disappeared.
On that airplane,
I politely remained
Silent as I leaned
Against the window,
Looked down at a city
Not mine, and counted
The church steeples,
And then I said a prayer
For all of the dogs
And all of their people.
The Dogs of War and Peace