Good Dog - Jan 29 2022

 

Good Dog

Jan 29 2022

The three-legged dog

has already forgotten

her past life.

She walks like she was born to it,

a little off-kilter

but never falling behind.

As usual, the squirrels are side-eyed and wary

but content to let her close,

they know their speed

the nearest tree

the ease of escape.

And still, she chases;

a few steps slower,

but dogged

irrepressible

never giving up hope.

She doesn’t dwell

on loss and disappointment.

While I'm a dog on a bone  —

never forget, and can’t let go,

could only hope

to have a memory

as bad as hers.

So instead of chasing squirrels,

I ruminate, regret

struggle to cope.

All my limbs are intact

there are no visible scars.

But there are hidden wounds

and heavy baggage,

the bandages

are beginning to peel-off.

The usual damage

of lives lived and time past

we all endure,

the shared burden

of being human.

While she hoovers up her food

spends hours napping.

Loves to being patted

scratched behind the ears,

is thrilled

to hear the leash jangle.

She is a champion sleeper;

unselfconscious

about how loud she snores.

And greets whoever's at the door

like a long lost friend.

She is a good dog.

She has mastered

the simple pleasures of life.

She is happy,

hobbled or not.

I guess a long way to say that dogs live in the moment. That they are eminently accepting and adaptable. And we quite rightly envy them for it. Except — and this is the cardinal rule of poetry — doing it by showing, not saying. Which takes a lot more words, but works so much better.

This poem began with a picture of a 3-legged raccoon (who lives in captivity, of course). But I thought a dog would be more interesting and appealing.