Good Dog
The dog sits
staring into the distance,
nose twitching
at any hint of smell.
There is a dignity in her posture,
back straight
neck raised,
her noble snout, held high
as befits the mistress
of all she surveys.
I admire her patience
watchfully waiting
there on the porch,
sniffing the air
regally gazing
right, then left.
There is no philosophy
in this dog.
She does not contemplate
existence, or sex
the meaning of death
the rationale of fetching.her noble snout, held high
as befits the mistress
of all she surveys.
I admire her patience
watchfully waiting
there on the porch,
sniffing the air
regally gazing
right, then left.
There is no philosophy
in this dog.
She does not contemplate
existence, or sex
the meaning of death
Has no vanity
despite her handsome strength.
And language is merely static noise;
but she understands faces,
is exquisitely tuned
to tone.
She accepts the universe
as given.
That I have always been there.
That she lives in her body, not her head,
fully absorbed
by food, and touch
pursuit, and scent.
That darkness comes, winter falls,
and it is always now
and forever.
She is unselfconscious;
her emotions, incontinent,
spilling-out
in excited jumps
a frantically wagging tail.
She forgives, and forgets
and carries no grudge.
She is loyal, and tough
and seems to know love
better than I could
ever.
And then she's off,
a brown streak, barking proudly,
inhabiting a world
of sound and scent
to which I'm utterly oblivious.
This bit of doggerel (forgive the pun!) is a complete indulgence. Every once in a while I feel compelled to write a paean to dogs. This just wrote itself; in a stream of consciousness that came quickly, and almost without effort. Dog lovers will enjoy it. All the others will roll their eyes at its sentimentality and idealization.
This poem began when I heard developmental psychologist Paul Bloom being interviewed about the origins of morality in babies. He said he'd give 6 months of his life to spend some time in a baby's head. Then he added -- perfectly seriously -- that he'd also love the privilege of getting inside the head of his dog (a greyhound, it turns out.) He wondered how it would feel to experience the world in an utterly different way. He wondered what goes on in his pet’s mind, spending all that time sitting, staring off into the distance?
I recently read about a new GoPro camera that's designed to fit snugly on any dog's head. It will allow an owner to experience moving through the world from his dog's perspective. I initially thought I might use this clever bit of technology as the hook for the poem. But then I realized what I wanted was not to see the world through a dog's eyes, but to get into its head. So I began instead with Paul Bloom's image -- which applies equally well to Skookum, my own beloved Lab -- and went from there.
I tried to touch on all that I admire in dogs: their ability to live in the moment, complete lack of vanity, utter physicality. Their essential dignity. Their ability to read us so well. Their innocence, and pure unselfconsciousness. Their unconditional loyalty, and love. I know there are bad dogs, and even more bad owners. But my dog is sweet, smart, and loyal. So I'm prone to see all dogs through her: if not the superficial lens of GoPro, then perhaps the rose-tinted glasses of a great dog.
despite her handsome strength.
And language is merely static noise;
but she understands faces,
is exquisitely tuned
to tone.
She accepts the universe
as given.
That I have always been there.
That she lives in her body, not her head,
fully absorbed
by food, and touch
pursuit, and scent.
That darkness comes, winter falls,
and it is always now
and forever.
She is unselfconscious;
her emotions, incontinent,
spilling-out
in excited jumps
a frantically wagging tail.
She forgives, and forgets
and carries no grudge.
She is loyal, and tough
and seems to know love
better than I could
ever.
And then she's off,
a brown streak, barking proudly,
inhabiting a world
of sound and scent
to which I'm utterly oblivious.
This bit of doggerel (forgive the pun!) is a complete indulgence. Every once in a while I feel compelled to write a paean to dogs. This just wrote itself; in a stream of consciousness that came quickly, and almost without effort. Dog lovers will enjoy it. All the others will roll their eyes at its sentimentality and idealization.
This poem began when I heard developmental psychologist Paul Bloom being interviewed about the origins of morality in babies. He said he'd give 6 months of his life to spend some time in a baby's head. Then he added -- perfectly seriously -- that he'd also love the privilege of getting inside the head of his dog (a greyhound, it turns out.) He wondered how it would feel to experience the world in an utterly different way. He wondered what goes on in his pet’s mind, spending all that time sitting, staring off into the distance?
I recently read about a new GoPro camera that's designed to fit snugly on any dog's head. It will allow an owner to experience moving through the world from his dog's perspective. I initially thought I might use this clever bit of technology as the hook for the poem. But then I realized what I wanted was not to see the world through a dog's eyes, but to get into its head. So I began instead with Paul Bloom's image -- which applies equally well to Skookum, my own beloved Lab -- and went from there.
I tried to touch on all that I admire in dogs: their ability to live in the moment, complete lack of vanity, utter physicality. Their essential dignity. Their ability to read us so well. Their innocence, and pure unselfconsciousness. Their unconditional loyalty, and love. I know there are bad dogs, and even more bad owners. But my dog is sweet, smart, and loyal. So I'm prone to see all dogs through her: if not the superficial lens of GoPro, then perhaps the rose-tinted glasses of a great dog.
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