Skookum in Her 16th Year - Aug 4 2024

 

For Skookum in Her 16th Year

Aug 4 2024



Even though the old dog

is skin and bones

and slower than Methuselah

she still sheds like stink,

loves to eat,

and greets strangers

like the second coming.

But her breathing is hard

tongue weak

hearing nearly gone.

She has a wobbly back end,

bad teeth,

and often overflows

her bright pink diaper,

leaking nasty diarrhea

on my treasured rugs.

There are bouts of confusion

when she circles aimlessly,

and when you hold her close

that old person smell

is unmistakable.

Which, if not the universal scent of decrepitude

then has somehow crossed

from human to dog,

our millennia

of living together

somehow tweaking their DNA.

She was my first dog

as well as best teacher,

who taught me to be in the moment,

take joy in simple things,

and express emotion unguardedly.

And, of course, forgive;

the unconditional love

we’ve come to expect

of man’s best friend.

Which our forbears

wisely bred into them;

presumably

how they would have liked to be themselves,

but — being only human — failed.

Clearly, the end is near,

and if nature doesn’t intervene

it will be up to me to choose.

But in the meantime

in the reprieve that is summer

I feed her soft food,

we take short slow walks,

and she stands unsteadily

watching the younger dogs retrieve

as eagerly as she once did.

The solipsist in me

can’t help but think

of my own fast approaching future.

Because to have seen her entire life

pass before my eyes,

   —  from a helpless pup

snuggling with her litter

of little squirming sausages,

into the rheumy-eyed gaze

of frail old age   —

is like witnessing mine

compressed into a few brief years;

a cautionary tale

of loss and decline.

I can only hope I will show as much forbearance

and strength of character,

not merely clinging to life

but taking pleasure where I’m able.

The saving grace

is that she neither remembers how things were

or knows what's awaiting her.

If ignorance is bliss

then she is blessed with it.

You can consider your life in stages,

count the years in coffee cups,

or go by the calendar.

Either that, or add up your dogs;

all the canine companions

whose too short lives

have passed through yours.

Reminiscing, as you look back,

but still grieving nearly as hard;

the bittersweetness

that makes you laugh

as well as cry.

A depth of feeling

that might seem inappropriate for a dog,

but is easily understood

by those who’ve also lost

a pet they loved.

The consolation

is that you gave them the best life you could.

And that you took care,

faithfully there

through house-training and milk teeth

the infirmities of age.

And there

to give comfort

when the time finally came.

Skookum is currently 15, and on Aug 12 will be entering her 16th year of life. Old for a Lab!

And as it is with a first born child, it’s the same with your first dog: every stage of life is a first as well. So all new to you, and therefore that much more intense, as well as harder, than it will be for the next one.

As I’m learning through the challenges of Skookum’s old age. Which is pretty much all work, no fun. But less than what you owe for the years of companionship, loyalty, and love.

Ignorance - Aug 3 2024

 

Ignorance

Aug 3 2024

It’s not what I don’t know.

Not what I know I don’t.

And not what I don’t know

there is to know;

the parallel universe of ignorance

I can’t even begin to fathom

let alone imagine.

Not even what I kind of know

but really don’t.

It’s what I’m sure I know

but have wrong.

And in this, it’s not so much the ignorance that hurts

it’s the certainty,

the pigheadedness

I mistake for mastery.

After all, facts are facts

so why even ask

for any second thought?

Wilful ignorance doesn’t count.

That is, what I choose not to see;

what I deny

even to myself;

what I want to be true

and therefore believe,

as if the truth was up to me.

Because if I’m able to will it so

I can also will it away.

It’s said that ignorance is bliss.

So by any measure

I should be ecstatic,

drifting through life

in a pleasant haze

of unreality.

But it turns out, I’m that annoying guy

who’s too arrogant by half,

the object of their laughter

pity

contempt;

the know-it-all

conspiracist,

impervious fanatic.

Who would be better off unlearning

what he’s absolutely certain of,

but nevertheless

stubbornly persists.

Because he can’t help but wonder

if it’s worth letting go;

will he ever be sure of anything

if he abandons what he knows?

And how will it feel

to have the tectonic plates

shift beneath his feet,

his world view

in disarray?

The ground on which he’s always stood

give way?

There is a small subfield of philosophy called agnatology — the study of ignorance. And its practitioners have coined an actual word — ignoration (again, spellcheck notwithstanding!) — that describes the condition of people who do not even know that they do not know. Which would be the worst kind of ignorance if it weren’t for the kind in which you don’t know, but are sure you do. The impervious certainty.

A Few Minor Sins - July 31 2024

 

A Few Minor Sins

July 31, 2024

They called themselves born again.

To be born the first time

is a miracle;

so a second chance at life

seems too good to be true.

But I can’t be sure

just what sort of Christian

they see themselves.

Is it the punishment and judgement type,

or social justice and love?

Is it the afterlife

   —  wafted up to heaven

while leaving the sinners behind to burn  —

or is it the here and now

doing good?

And I can only hope

they believe in fun as well.

Because the self-righteously smug

are insufferable,

and the puritanical, I suspect

are trying too hard

to make up for something bad.

Either that

or just wanting to belong,

nodding along

while keeping their doubts to themselves.

As for me, I’m incapable of belief.

Apparently

you can be born a skeptic

the first time,

unmoved by faith

no matter how you've been raised

or have it hammered into you.

There is a humility in this

I find appealing  —

no heavenly Father

watching over just me,

no all-powerful god

so insecure

he depends on my belief.

Rather, I am insignificant,

a speck of cosmic dust

and the product of happenstance;

a random mutation, here and there,

a vast indifferent universe.

But still,

I have nothing against religion,

because life is hard

and whatever gets you through it

is fine with me.

Just not too preachy, please.

And perhaps allow yourself

a few minor sins.

Because forgiveness

is religion’s great gift,

and learning to forgive

yourself, as well as others

is where empathy lives

and love begins.

Haptic Touch - July 28 2024

 

Haptic Touch

July 28 2024

She insisted we weren’t real.

That it was all a simulation

and we were merely code,

the ones and zeros

that made up the game.

Or were we the players?

So when our lives ended

would we slip off the headset

only to find that those 80 long years

full of triumph and pain

had taken mere hours to play?

Who knows

how many layers there are.

Of players being played,

and orders of reality

all the way down

to simple figures

on blinking screens

in green fluorescing light,

and all the way up

to a perfect simulacrum;

the most advanced game imaginable,

with multi-dimensions and haptic touch

and billions of active players.

What set it all motion

who could possibly know.

Is there a quantum computer

in a corner of the universe

spitting out scenarios

in infinite games of chance,

plugged in

to who knows what?

And which, since reality doesn’t exist

must be as insubstantial

as she insists we are.

But most if all

how could information

in and of itself

— zeros and ones

along with the odd entangled fraction —

possibly feel like this;

her body

tucked against mine,

her heat and naked thighs,

her curious hands, and urgent tongue,

the hunger in her eyes.

And why even care

about the nature of reality?

Because if it feels real

it might as well be.

And because while metaphysics

may sound scientific

it reminds me of religion,

no different

than theologians debating

how many angels

can dance on the head of a pin.

So if tonight

I’m so immersed in the game

that time has no meaning

why not surrender completely?

Let her imaginary numbers

do to my zeros and ones

whatever in the world she wishes.

Conjuring - July 25 2024

 

Conjuring

July 25 2024

There is no such thing

as a disembodied voice.

And every morning

when the radio jolts me awake

I can see her plain as day,

my mind

conjuring up a human face

out of incidental sound.

Because the human mind

is made for that;

seeking out patterns,

filling in the blanks,

breathing life

into the inanimate.

So the billboard was a mistake;

two morning DJs

leaning into their mikes

and smiling for the camera.

The usual banter

flirty repartee,

but nothing at all

as I’d imagined her to be.

Never meet your heroes, they say,

because we all have feet of clay.

Yet I’d fallen for that voice,

and now, a spurned suitor

I was disillusioned

and falling out of love.

How much better it was

living in my head,

naively projecting my wants and needs

onto vibrations in the air.

As if she spoke only to me.

As if she could also see,

through the ether

and out through the speaker

sweetly back;

a forgiving gaze

despite my sleep-swollen eyes

and morning face

creased by the pillow.

And as if, through my fog of half awake

she was perfectly happy

to talk on my behalf.

How I see her in my mind’s eye,

morning coffee

across the table

in our cozy breakfast nook;

mine, black as usual,

and hers

with a teaspoon of sugar

and soupçon of milk.

Where she would read out loud

in the alluring voice

I knew so well.

While I sat

taking in every word;

a good listener

who is perfectly at ease

saying nothing in return.

Divergent - July 18 2024

 

Divergent

July 18 2024

A few degrees either way

and her intimate whispers

are just as clear

her voice the same.

But not quite in your ear,

and too far

for the hot wet breath

that once so excited you.

Time passes

and distance grows,

but the conversation still flows.

Until you have to raise your voice,

then shout

and strain to hear.

How long

until you’re squinting to make her out

and waving with both arms

depends on speed and trajectory.

Basic physics;

except that now

instead of time slowing

the faster you go, the older you feel.

Because in the universe of human emotion

relativity

is immaterial.

After that, it’s just a matter of time

before she disappears.

And though the attraction somehow persists,

you inevitably hit

the event horizon;

that notional line

where her gravity dies.

Or at least fails to move

the way you once fell.

Which, like the moon around the earth

is simply a matter of mass;

with a far side

you’ve never seen,

phases

that wax and wane

except less predictably.

The same mass

that used to spoon next to yours

(even though“mass”

would be a bad choice of words

for the woman you love!)

Two objects

that begin together

at the same point in space,

but continue

on evers so lightly different paths

will inevitably drift apart.

Two diverging lines

that can’t be reconciled.

Even though

as we learned in physics class

inertia is not a force.

But then

science does not apply

to the human dilemma,

and arguments go on

long past the time

they stopped making sense.

If only we had known

momentum can be broken.

Had only known

we are not acted upon

but are free to act ourselves.

Had only known

that even when atoms are split

in a burst of violent fission,

the force of repulsion

can be overcome.

That with enough work

two particles

   —  even if highly charged

and too much the same for their own good  —

can come together again.

In a rush of heat and light

made whole.