A Poem by Catbird

WHAT WE LEARN FROM DOGS

Where the dog park dips away

into the secluded section beyond the stand of mesquite,

Sam and I ran across a gray-muzzled Newfoundland

with a pink bandage around her front right leg,

her owner taking pictures with a cell phone.

“Daisy.” 

Sam made as if to play, and Daisy hopped

once, then stopped and wagged her tail

apologetically.  I could see movement was hard

 for her and asked,  How did she get injured?

A hesitation, then, She isn’t injured.

It’s an IV.

We are putting her down this afternoon.

The red-eyed husband stood apart from us

speaking solemnly into a cell phone of his own.

Sam trotted on.  Before I followed him,

 I put my hands behind Daisy’s ears,

scratching, massaging,  feeling the age

and bony frailty beneath her deep, deep coat.

Doesn’t she have the softest fur?

her owner said. 

Later, we saw them climb the hill:

the woman, keys in hand, followed by her husband,

Daisy in his arms, her enormous gray head

in absolute trust against his shoulder. 

If I formed a prayer before this solemn processional,

it might have been a plea for many more of these green and golden days; 

to come to the dog park long past my ability to run;

to die quickly and on a beautiful day;

to be carried out with tenderness and respect by someone who loves me.

Instead, in the language of dogs, and the Rinpoche,

Sam and I sniffed the sharp December air

as the gate clanged open, then closed.

And after a beat, we shook ourselves

and moved on.

 

Sam at the blessing of the animals, October 2010