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(p.s. drag me!!!!!)
My Dog Amidst a Pandemic
I’m
guessing that if it were anything,
it would have to be reduced from the stare, from
the ironclad gaze into the left cupboard.
Now that we’re on this topic, I really do wonder
what it is. I try to count the times that he trots in
to what? To lick my left thigh, sniff the sweater, inspect
the miscellaneous crumbs by bedside? What is it
about dogs that feels so the opposite of revolting.
That maybe everything could absolutely combust
and they would still be there to lick the rubble.
I wonder if he knows about the stacked cans
in the pantry, the condensed milk behind
the trash can. I wonder if he’s superstitious, if
he follows the lunar calendar or has some sort
of cosmic guidance on how to buckle down
for the next few months. I presume he waddles
idly, minding his own business, consumed with
very important dog-matters like treat-getting
and pee-doing, but listen, let me tell you, my dog gazes.
There’s a poignancy in a gaze—an upward
nostril, a tense tail. A nuzzle beyond comfort. I sense
that he can smell my despair, and matches it,
like a mime. Like a mime, he shadows my crawl
to the fridge for some midnight morsel. Like a mime,
he screams into pillow after boycotting the family
walk. Like a mime, my dog holds a hand out
to mine, tells me that he’s always been waiting.
I’ve been here, and I’ve known it, far before it happened.
Like a sage, he lowers his head, bows, and embarks
on what’s ahead. Silent and prophetic, guzzling
down his chow. I’ve never had more faith.
it would have to be reduced from the stare, from
the ironclad gaze into the left cupboard.
Now that we’re on this topic, I really do wonder
what it is. I try to count the times that he trots in
to what? To lick my left thigh, sniff the sweater, inspect
the miscellaneous crumbs by bedside? What is it
about dogs that feels so the opposite of revolting.
That maybe everything could absolutely combust
and they would still be there to lick the rubble.
I wonder if he knows about the stacked cans
in the pantry, the condensed milk behind
the trash can. I wonder if he’s superstitious, if
he follows the lunar calendar or has some sort
of cosmic guidance on how to buckle down
for the next few months. I presume he waddles
idly, minding his own business, consumed with
very important dog-matters like treat-getting
and pee-doing, but listen, let me tell you, my dog gazes.
There’s a poignancy in a gaze—an upward
nostril, a tense tail. A nuzzle beyond comfort. I sense
that he can smell my despair, and matches it,
like a mime. Like a mime, he shadows my crawl
to the fridge for some midnight morsel. Like a mime,
he screams into pillow after boycotting the family
walk. Like a mime, my dog holds a hand out
to mine, tells me that he’s always been waiting.
I’ve been here, and I’ve known it, far before it happened.
Like a sage, he lowers his head, bows, and embarks
on what’s ahead. Silent and prophetic, guzzling
down his chow. I’ve never had more faith.