Bloodlust and Carnivory - Oct 12 2026

 

Bloodlust and Carnivory

Oct 12 2026

Roughhousing with the dogs.

With bared teeth and lunges for the neck

they play at being wolves.

It’s the wagging tails that give them away,

the bright eyes

that seek out mine for approval.

But, as usual, I’m not fully there.

I am stuck on the word

which makes no sense, yet perfectly captures this.

Roughhousing,

a dad word 

my father might have used

but me, never

until just now.

The pairing of h, like musical chairs

taking a break in the middle.

That unwieldy ghh

I can’t begin to pronounce;

should I squeeze the hard g out my throat

or hiss an airy breath

  — the way a kid

gurgles out an ahhh

at the check-up with his tongue depressed?

But mostly, I like how house domesticates rough;

so it’s more innocent fun

than bloodlust and carnivory.

Sensibly, the dogs have no time for such reveries

know just single syllables.

They’re too preoccupied 

rolling on the carpet

grappling, and pretending to bite,

growling like they meant it.

The wolf, bred out of them

so only play is left.

My dogs have taught me many things. But the biggest and most enviable one may be how to be fully present:  neither ruminating on the past nor anxiously anticipating the future; not constantly planning, judging, or resisting what fate has delivered. They are Zen masters of living in the now. I’m not.

Also, they are formidable animals and could be killing machines, but instead they’re as endearingly innocent as plush toys. Might I suggest that we humans aren’t nearly so well bred?

The New Yorker published an Anne Carson poem today (the Oct 19, 2026 edition) that used this word. It’s a very useful but unlikely one:  unlikely, because I don’t see how it makes logical sense. In print, especially, the awkward conflation of its two constituent words really caught my eye. 

It also struck a cord because my 2 dogs and me “roughhouse” on the carpet almost every day! They seem less enthusiastic when I’m not there. It’s as if they’re either showing off, trying to entertain me as best they know how, or seeking my approval. I say this because they occasionally catch my eye, as if checking in on me: am I  still there, still engaged? This reminds me of little kids insistingly shouting “watch me” to onlooking parents as they perform a cartwheel or some other proudly mastered feat.

Her poem is called Life. Here’s how it begins:

Bright as boatwash

we head for Montreal,

to Will’s house.

Will’s birthday.

Here’s Will!

New green sofa,

glass of Malbec,

roughhousing with the dog on the rug.

  . . .