Following the Sun - Mar 16 2021

 

Following the Sun

Mar 16 2021

The dogs are sprawled on the deck,

eyes drifting shut

big barrel chests

rising and falling

in slow shallow breaths.

Where they follow the sun,

panting bodies heaving up

then padding slowly left

and dropping with all their weight,

as if the few short steps

had exhausted them.

It's only March,

but the unaccustomed heat

feels like the doldrums of summer.

And the weathered wooden deck

which only yesterday

was wet with cold sloppy snow

is high and dry and welcoming.

Animals are inherently wise,

conserving energy

and skilled at passing the time

in mindless reverie.

So are they truly mindless

or are they mindful as masters of Zen,

silencing

the monkey chatter that fills our brains

and being simply present

in the here and now?

My faithful dogs

are full of love and free of angst,

never ruminating on the past

nor anxious about the future.

And if they have free will

which we flatter ourselves we do

they are oblivious,

moved simply by whatever it is

in front of their noses.

The smell of dinner, perhaps.

The same dry kibble

they've had ever day

for as long as they remember.

An occasion

for bright expectant eyes

and manically thrashing tails

and great gobs of saliva

frothing to the floor,

impatient

to Hoover it up whole

then lick their bowls clean.

And then return to sleep

in the soporific heat

of an unseasonable March,

dreaming

the contented dreams

of the innocent and good.

I've written numerous poems about the virtues of dogs: not just their superhuman sense of smell and Olympic calibre athleticism, but their essential character. Things like unconditional love; a lack of judgment or the holding of grudges; an ability to live in the moment; their unguarded and unselfconscious displays of emotion; the absence of physical vanity or materialism or pride (although I suppose competitions for dominance can be a form of pride); and their loyalty and attachment. Perhaps what we envy most is their unawareness of death. (Although, as I've written before, there is much to be said for contemplating our mortality. It focuses us. It sharpens our appreciation of life and our gratitude. It critically contributes to the enriching experience of the search for meaning and our place in the universe.)

This begins as a purely descriptive piece that reflects my propensity for poems of close observation. But, of course, it can't help but become another encomium to the noble dog.

(There is also a passing reference in the poem to free will. I had just been reading a chapter in Sam Harris' excellent Making Sense: Conversations on Consciousness, Morality, and the Future of Humanity in which he talks with the neuroendocrinologist Daniel Sapolsky about how their understanding of brain science suggests that free will is a myth: that between genetics and epigenetics, prenatal environment, and key developmental influences, our choices are made for us and we simply rationalize after the fact. Which, of course, has implications for criminal justice, ideas about morality, and even our sense of the self as sovereign individual.)