Dog Songs Read online

  I could tell many more stories about Sammy, they’re endless. But I’ll just tell you the unexpected, joyful conclusion. The dog officer resigned! And the next officer was a different sort; he too remembered and missed the old days. So when he found Sammy he would simply call him into his truck and drive him home. In this way, he lived a long and happy life, with many friends.

  This is Sammy’s story. But I also think there are one or two poems in it somewhere. Maybe it’s what life was like in this dear town years ago, and how a lot of us miss it.

  Or maybe it’s about the wonderful things that may happen if you break the ropes that are holding you.

  PERCY

  Our new dog, named for the beloved poet,

  ate a book which unfortunately we had

  left unguarded.

  Fortunately it was the Bhagavad Gita,

  of which many copies are available.

  Every day now, as Percy grows

  into the beauty of his life, we touch

  his wild, curly head and say,

  “Oh, wisest of little dogs.”

  SCHOOL

  You’re like a little wild thing

  that was never sent to school.

  Sit, I say, and you jump up.

  Come, I say, and you go galloping down the sand

  to the nearest dead fish

  with which you perfume your sweet neck.

  It is summer.

  How many summers does a little dog have?

  Run, run, Percy.

  This is our school.

  LITTLE DOG’S RHAPSODY IN THE NIGHT

  He puts his cheek against mine

  and makes small, expressive sounds.

  And when I’m awake, or awake enough

  he turns upside down, his four paws

  in the air

  and his eyes dark and fervent.

  “Tell me you love me,” he says.

  “Tell me again.”

  Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over

  he gets to ask.

  I get to tell.

  TIME PASSES

  And now Percy is getting brazen.

  “Let’s down the beach, baby,” he says.

  “Let’s shake it with a little barking.

  Let’s find dead things, and explore them,

  by mouth, if possible.”

  Or maybe the leavings of Paul’s horse (after which,

  forgive me for mentioning it, he is fond of kissing).

  Ah, this is the thing that comes to each of us.

  The child grows up.

  And, according to our own ideas, is practically asunder.

  I understand it.

  I struggle to celebrate.

  I say, with a stiff upper lip familiar to many:

  Just look at that curly-haired child now, he’s his own man.

  UNTITLED

  Just before Percy had his operation

  he had one long rendezvous with a

  little dog named Penny. As it happened

  there was no result. But, oh, how

  Percy smiled and smiled all the way

  home.

  PERCY WAKES ME

  Percy wakes me and I am not ready.

  He has slept all night under the covers.

  Now he’s eager for action: a walk, then breakfast.

  So I hasten up. He is sitting on the kitchen counter

  where he is not supposed to be.

  How wonderful you are, I say. How clever, if you

  needed me,

  to wake me.

  He thought he would hear a lecture and deeply

  his eyes begin to shine.

  He tumbles onto the couch for more compliments.

  He squirms and squeals; he has done something

  that he needed

  and now he hears that it is okay.

  I scratch his ears, I turn him over

  and touch him everywhere. He is

  wild with the okayness of it. Then we walk, then

  he has breakfast, and he is happy.

  This is a poem about Percy.

  This is a poem about more than Percy.

  Think about it.

  THE SWEETNESS OF DOGS

  What do you say, Percy? I am thinking

  of sitting out on the sand to watch

  the moon rise. It’s full tonight.

  So we go

  and the moon rises, so beautiful it

  makes me shudder, makes me think about

  time and space, makes me take

  measure of myself: one iota

  pondering heaven. Thus we sit, myself

  thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s

  perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich

  it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,

  leans against me and gazes up into

  my face. As though I were just as wonderful

  as the perfect moon.

  PERCY SPEAKS WHILE I AM DOING TAXES

  First of all, I do not want to be doing this.

  Second of all, Percy does not want me

  to be doing this,

  bent over the desk like a besieged person

  with a dull pencil and innumerable lists

  of numbers.

  Outside the water is blue, the sky is clear,

  the tide rising.

  Percy, I say, this has to be done. This is

  essential. I’ll be finished eventually.

  “Keep me in your thoughts,” he replies. “Just because

  I can’t count to ten doesn’t mean

  I don’t remember yesterday, or anticipate today.

  I’ll give you ten more minutes,” and he does.

  Then shouts—who could resist—his

  favorite words: Let’s go!

  PERCY, WAITING FOR RICKY

  Your friend is coming, I say

  to Percy and name a name

  and he runs to the door, his

  wide mouth in its laugh-shape,

  and waves, since he has one, his tail.

  Emerson, I am trying to live,

  as you said we must, the examined life.

  But there are days I wish

  there was less in my head to examine,

  not to speak of the busy heart. How

  would it be to be Percy, I wonder, not

  thinking, not weighing anything, just running forward.

  PERCY (2002–2009)

  This—I said to Percy when I had left

  our bed and gone

  out onto the living room couch where

  he found me apparently doing nothing—this

  is called thinking.

  It’s something people do,

  not being entirely children of the earth,

  like a dog or a tree or a flower.

  His eyes questioned such an activity.

  “Well, okay,” he said. “If you say so. Whatever

  it is. Actually

  I like kissing better.”

  And next to me,

  tucked down his curly head

  and, sweet as a flower, slept.

  “FOR I WILL CONSIDER MY DOG PERCY”

  For I will consider my dog Percy.

  For he was made small but brave of heart.

  For if he met another dog he would kiss her in kindness.

  For when he slept he snored only a little.

  For he could be silly and noble in the same moment.

  For when he spoke he remembered the trumpet and when

  he scratched he struck the floor like a drum.

  For he ate only the finest food and drank only the


  purest of water, yet would nibble of dead fish also.

  For he came to me impaired and therefore certain of

  short life, yet thoroughly rejoiced in each day.

  For he took his medicines without argument.

  For he played easily with the neighborhood’s bull

  mastiff.

  For when he came upon mud he splashed through it.

  For he was an instrument for the children to learn

  benevolence upon.

  For he listened to poems as well as love-talk.

  For when he sniffed it was as if he were being

  pleased by every part of the world.

  For when he sickened he rallied as many times as

  he could.

  For he was a mixture of gravity and waggery.

  For we humans can seek self-destruction in ways

  he never dreamed of.

  For he took actions both cunning and reckless, yet

  refused always to offer himself to be admonished.

  For his sadness though without words was

  understandable.

  For there was nothing sweeter than his peace

  when at rest.

  For there was nothing brisker than his life when

  in motion.

  For he was of the tribe of Wolf.

  For when I went away he would watch for me at

  the window.

  For he loved me.

  For he suffered before I found him, and never

  forgot it.

  For he loved Anne.

  For when he lay down to enter sleep he did not argue

  about whether or not God made him.

  For he could fling himself upside down and laugh

  a true laugh.

  For he loved his friend Ricky.

  For he would dig holes in the sand and then let

  Ricky lie in them.

  For often I see his shape in the clouds and this is

  a continual blessing.

  THE FIRST TIME PERCY CAME BACK

  The first time Percy came back

  he was not sailing on a cloud.

  He was loping along the sand as though

  he had come a great way.

  “Percy,” I cried out, and reached to him—

  those white curls—

  but he was unreachable. As music

  is present yet you can’t touch it.

  “Yes, it’s all different,” he said.

  “You’re going to be very surprised.”

  But I wasn’t thinking of that. I only

  wanted to hold him. “Listen,” he said.

  “I miss that too.

  And now you’ll be telling stories

  of my coming back

  and they won’t be false, and they won’t be true,

  but they’ll be real.”

  And. then, as he used to, he said, “Let’s go!”

  And we walked down the beach together.

  RICKY TALKS ABOUT TALKING

  Ricky, can you explain how it is that

  Anne and I can talk with you, as we did

  with Percy too, and we all understand

  each other? Is it a kind of miracle?

  “It’s no miracle,” said Ricky. “It’s

  actually simple. When you or Anne talk,

  I listen. When I talk you listen, as

  you did with Percy.”

  Of course we listen!

  “No, I mean really listen. Here’s a

  story, and you don’t have to visit many

  houses to find it. One person is talking,

  the other one is not really listening.

  Someone can look like they are but they’re

  actually thinking about something they

  want to say, or their minds are just

  wandering. Or they’re looking at that

  little box people hold in their hands these

  days. And people get discouraged, so they

  quit trying. And the very quiet people,

  you may have noticed, are often the sad

  people.”

  Ricky, you have really thought about this.

  So we can talk together because we really

  listen, and that’s because . . .

  “Yes, because we care.”

  THE WICKED SMILE

  “Please, please, I think I haven’t eaten

  for days.”

  What? Ricky, you had a huge supper.

  “I did? My stomach doesn’t remember.

  Oh, I think I’m fading away. Please

  make me breakfast and I’ll tell you

  something you don’t know.”

  He ate rapidly.

  Okay, I said. What were you going to

  tell me?

  He smiled the wicked smile. “Before we

  came over, Anne already gave me my breakfast,”

  he said.

  Be prepared. A dog is adorable and noble.

  A dog is a true and loving friend. A dog

  is also a hedonist.

  THE TRAVELER

  Ricky, your ancesters are from Cuba,

  right?

  Says Ricky, “So I’m told.”

  But you were born in Florida?

  “I was a baby, how would I know?

  But that’s what I’m told.”

  And you’ve lived in Massachusetts and

  other states and also Mexico and

  now Florida again, and heaven knows

  what other places you may travel to.

  Are you an American, or what?

  He shrugged his shoulders casually and

  smiled. “Je suis un chien du monde,”

  he said.

  SHOW TIME

  And here come the dogs. Brushed, trimmed,

  polished.

  “What on earth have they done to them!”

  said Ricky. “They’re half shaved. And

  wearing pillows on their heads. And

  where are their tails?”

  It’s the rules, I said.

  “And look at those women trying to run.

  They sure don’t look like you.”

  Thank you, I said.

  “I’m getting a headache looking at this.

  I have to bark!” And he began.

  It does no good to bark at the television,

  I said. I’ve tried it too. So he stopped.

  “If I ever meet one of these dogs I’m going

  to invite him to come here, where he can

  be a proper dog.”

  Okay, I said. But remember, you can’t fix

  everything in the world for everybody.

  “However,” said Ricky, “you can’t do

  anything at all unless you begin. Haven’t

  I heard you say that once or twice, or

  maybe a hundred times?”

  A BAD DAY

  Ricky, why are you barking and trying

  to rip up the couch? Can’t you settle

  down? It’s been a long day.

  “It sure has. First you forgot to take

  me out. Then you went to the market

  and heaven knows where else. And my

  dinner was late. And our walk was

  short. And now you’re supposed to

  be on the floor playing with me but,

  no, you’re doing something else. So I

  thought I’d give this couch a little

  distress.”

  Well, don’t. Be a good boy.

  “Honestly, what do you expect? Like

  you I�
�m not perfect, I’m only human.”

  HENRY

  “What is that?” said Ricky as Henry

  came through the door.

  That’s Henry, I said. He’s a bulldog

  and he’s come to stay with us with my

  friend Linda.

  “He’s a horse,” said Ricky. “Already my

  heart is pounding.”

  Yes, he’s big, he’s supposed to be.

  Say hello to him.

  “Really. Well hello, Henry. I hope

  you don’t gobble up all my toys.”

  Henry: Snort, snort.

  Ricky: (to me) “He’s not very good with

  words, is he.”

  Henry, after another snort, clambered

  onto the couch.

  Ricky shouted, “There isn’t

  room for both of us!”

  Sure there is. Just move over, and

  give yourself a little time to know

  him.

  Ricky sat closer, but with a nervous

  look.

  It was a wonderful week. My friend

  and I talked, we walked on the beach,

  Ricky and Henry went swimming, they

  dug a hole together, no toys got

  eaten.

  Finally they had to leave. Ricky by

  that time was friendly with limping,

  lumbering, fifteen-year-old Henry.

  “Bye, bye, Henry,” he said.

  “Snort, snort,” said Henry.

  Then they were gone.

  Said Ricky, “He really is as big as

  a horse, but actually a very sweet

  horse. I hope he comes again.”

  HOW A LOT OF US BECOME FRIENDS

  One day on the beach Ricky met a dog

  just his size. Her name is Lucy,

  and she is very pretty.

  “Wow,” said Ricky.

  Naturally, I met Lucy’s mother, Theresa,

  at the same time.

  It happens that Ricky’s full name is