Hackles

April 20 2016

The dog’s hackles are up again.

A tufted hump of fur,

like an unkempt mohawk

on her shoulders, and rump.

She thinks she's looking fierce

but I can see the fear,

head low, tail pointing down.

Such is the lot of timid dogs;

like big-talkers and card-sharps

good at the bluff.

Like puffed-up politicians,

not much there

under the blow-dried hair

and phony smiles.

Mostly, though, she sprawls in the sun,

relocating from patch to patch

as it leisurely travels

from shadow to light.

And when push comes to shove

lies supine,

soft underbelly

a pale pink surrender flag.

Appeasing those tiny yapping dogs

who act like big shots,

strutting and bouncing like wind-up toys

on a short taut leash.

At last, another dog poem!

Skookum’s hackles go up easily. She’s a strong dog and a good size; but she’s gentle and timid and eminently sensible. I admire her social intelligence:  she can defuse any bad situation, mollify the most aggressive dog. If it’s a nasty barking dog, she regally ignores it:  secure and self-contained, she simply goes about her business. I’m proud to see her act submissively:  she’s a lover, not a fighter; a conscientious objector who will never go to war unless it’s life or death.

It’s finally spring, and I notice how clever she is, not to mention what a comfort queen:  always finding the best patch of sun, leisurely circling around the house like a canine sundial. She’s not good in the heat. So she sprawls lazily, soaking it up.