Poet Commentaries

Stupid Dog



You would think he would not be
out of sorts,
frollicking about as he is,
pawing and kicking up winter,
jamming his muzzle
into every hole
chasing the scent of spring
into the murk of it all
and coming up
with twigs and grasses
stuck in whiskers

never once hearing a command
except “stay close”;
that only spoken when
he is too far;
running down bunnies
on the wrong side of near
and that fence.

He never sees those fences
or property lines
and he cannot cope
with fine winters;
where I mull over snow
at a snail’s pace.
My heaven is not his…

there is a mushiness
when he’s out of the traces.

I call loud.
He returns sheepish,
remembering the stories
of Buck and White Fang,
feeling less than them,
his tale between his legs,
his manner out of sorts;
mistaking loud
for displeased.

I tell him he is just like them
never properly tracking
the scent of my smile,
the timber in “good boy”.
Never clenching
the concept of loved.

In the truck again
the paperwork done
I reach over
and scritch his ears,
roll down his window
and let in on the breeze
his next romp

(the stupid dog
it is -18 before the
wind chill)

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