The Yips
Nov 6 2009


The pup whimpers when she’s tired,
when she needs to go out
wants in
would like to play fetch —
a well chewed stick
soft with dog saliva.

Her deep brown eyes
imploring,
tail motoring
nose boring
into mouldy leaves,
abandoned rabbit holes,
stagnant puddles
bubbling-up
with soft green sludge.

She gets the yips —
frantically circling,
hurtling her sleek brown body
in kamikaze sprints,
ears pinned-back by speed.
Of which she has exactly 2:
flat-out full,
and catatonic.

When she falls into instant sleep
oblivious,
first pawing like a fussy mother
at a mess of towels, covers,
then squirmed against the crate.
Or flat on her back, dead-weight;
forelegs dangling, back legs splayed,
her soft pink tummy
undefended,
head cranked hard to left.

Lying in bed
I can hear her dream —
legs thrashing, teeth gnashing,
yips and growls and pants.
And we thought only higher animals, like us
dreamed
the great thoughts of human consciousness.
While this pup, asleep
pursues simpler things —
chasing groundhogs
that quiver with winter fat,
sniffing bigger dogs,
unleashed walks
bounding along beside me.

She makes me feel old
when she stops
and cocks her head behind her,
baffled at my slowness

And she keeps me young,
living every moment
as if that’s all there was.