Skookum

April 21 2020

I brought her home

held in the palm of my hand,

all fat puppy tummy

and stubby muzzle

and unquenchable life force.

In the years since then

    –   ten, and counting   –

it's as if she's been a big dog forever

it's so hard to remember

watching her grow.

So side by side

we've been ageing together

in the imperceptible manner of age;

for me, one more decade

to add to those before,

while she has leapfrogged over

and become a bright-eyed elder.

The fur around her nose,

has turned a mousy grey,

like an old man's whiskers

who can't be bothered to shave.

And the bones along her back stick up

where muscle is slowly wasting,

like the armoured spine

of some dwarf stegosaurus.

She takes her time.

She sleeps more.

She's somewhat more compliant.

Or perhaps just unsure, instead of less wilful,

like a senior citizen

confused by new technology.

And this noble dog

who would tolerate only so much petting

now eagerly jumps into bed with me,

spooning against my body

in a way that comforts us both.

Her animal warmth

her beating heart

her loud irregular breathing.

But she is a good dog

and still sniffs and barks and chases.

Still plays

with her little sister

with her usual gentle forbearance.

Is still obsessed with food;

and as our mothers all told us

a good appetite

is a sign of good health.

We love our pets,

even knowing that they will leave us

before our time.

We watch them grow old

like a cautionary tale

of own inexorable fate.

So I can only hope

I will age with the grace

of my beautiful brown retriever.

My best friend, always;

my lifelong teacher.

I found myself tempted to write another dog poem after reading this recent piece by the incomparable Billy Collins (see below). Or perhaps more compelled than tempted. I really like to avoid them. Not that they aren't heartfelt or true. It's more that they're just too darn easy; that they flirt with sentimentality; and that I think would strike the many non-dog-lovers of the world as inexcusably self-indulgent. After all, as Billy Collins puts it, “ ...who really cares about another person's dog?”

Skookum is now 10 3/4. I probably wouldn't have so much noticed her ageing if it wasn't for the contrast with my other chocolate Lab, Rufus; who is a mere 3 3/4 at the time of this writing, and still has all the enthusiasm and wonder of a puppy. They are adopted sisters who – despite being of the same breed and the best of buddies – are very different in temperament: Rufus, compliant, very touchy-feely, and surprisingly mellow; while Skookum is wilful and a bit standoffish and always into mischief. But are both delightful, nevertheless. Rufus has so much charisma I sometimes find I'm paying less attention to Skookum than she deserves. So I hope that this poem serves as a bit of a corrective.

“Skookum”, btw, is taken from Chinook (which is a pidgin trade language from the west coast of North America), and it means “all things good”. I came across this word when I was waiting for my new dog (who is also my first dog) and trying to come up with a good name. It immediately struck me as perfect. And it is. The meaning, as well as the wonderful sound of the word.

The ending of the poem may strike you as curious. My lifelong teacher? She hasn't taught me how to program a computer or scan a line of poetry, but she has taught me about living in the moment; about being oblivious to vanity and materialism and status; about always being ready for fun; about how to love unconditionally and without judgment; and about priorities in life. Dogs have much to teach us. If only we could also unlearn our foreknowledge of death. Or maybe not. Because without that knowledge, would we really live more freely? Or would we simply live less mindfully?

Walking My Seventy-Five-Year-Old Dog
by Billy Collins

She's painfully slow,
so I often have to stop and wait
while she sniffs some roadside weeds
as if she were reading the biography of a famous dog.

And she's not a pretty sight any more,
dragging one of her hind legs,
her coat too matted to brush or comb,
and a snout white as a marshmallow.

We usually walk down a disused road
that runs along the edge of a lake,
whose surface trembles in a high wind
and is slow to ice over as the months grow cold.

We don't walk very far before
she sits down on her worn haunches
and looks up at me with her rheumy eyes.
Then it's time to carry her back to the car.

Just thinking about the honesty in her eyes,
I realize I should tell you
she's not really seventy five. She's fourteen.
I guess I was trying to appeal to your sense

of the bizarre, the curiosities of the sideshow.
I mean who really cares about another person's dog?
Everything else I've said is true,
except the part about her being fourteen.

I mean she's old, but not that old,
and it's not nice to divulge the true age of a lady.