April 11.23: Coping, but barely

A dog and her stick,

most mysterious meld

of inertia and focus

I ever beheld.

With nary a muscle,

a leg or a wing,

the stick’s going nowhere —

it’s just a dead thing.

The dog, disbelieving

in inanimation,

is taking no chance

on stick ambulation.

Convinced that the stick

is just playing possum,

the dog bides her time

with readiness awesome.

This stand-off, I’m sure,

has lesson for me,

and I begin to suspect

what that lesson could be:

today isn’t yesterday.

You just never know

when the stick will escape

and you’ll look like a schmo.

 

 

April 22.22: Coping, but barely

The pensive dog,

drowsed by talk,

took her thoughts

on wooded walk,

contemplative

and solitary,

past springtime’s

ruffled luminary.

The daffodils sighed

as she passed by,

looked after her

with solicitous eye.

 

This, dear reader, is Miss Janey Pickles. I’m told she is named for a literary figure beloved by my daughter-in-law. Some people speak of their grand-dogs; I am not one of those people. Janey Pickles is not my grand-dog even though she belongs to my daughter-in-law and my son. Or they belong to her. Whichever. The amazing thing about Janey Pickles is that sometimes she’s awake.

 

 

Disconnections: July 26.18

The eternal question

is writ on her face:

which is more fun,

to catch or to chase?

 

 

Connections: April 29.17

I have been in an alternate universe

a place I have been before

where perpetual motion is rampant

and parents a mere twoscore.

There’s soccer and softball and homework

lives lived digitally

two kids, two cats, two dogs,

and Grandma (that would be me).

Mom in a sling and Dad far away

a convergence of planning and chance

with non-stop pre-teen rhythm

and flying by the seat of our pants.

I lived in a place such as this

in a dim and distant past

when I had an abundance of pep

and my hormones hadn’t lapsed

but now my creaky bones

move far less supplely

and I don’t know when I’ll recover

from the onslaught of energy.

Connections

Connections: May 16

We often over-reach

for space and things and stuff

when sometimes just a corner

is grand estate enough.

Connections

Connections: April 14

Body language

dogs’ high art

rug and slipper

counterpart.

This vignette

sly ablation

silent

silver-tongued

oration.

Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives,

Vernon Hill Gallery.

Connections

Connections: November 25

Show me no calendar!

I don’t want to see!

A month from today?

No way! Cannot be!

The stressed madding crowds,

the squeeze and the sleaze,

Burl Ives and The Chipmunks —

I’d rather have fleas!

Connections

The balloon

Yesterday I wrote about my history with dogs. My fear of dogs bubbles up when any dog is unleashed and near me; that is true. However, writing about my fear of dogs yesterday was a way of keeping a lid on all the other fears that are bubbling up.

I try to control the power of those fears by writing about part of it, like letting the air out of the balloon a little at a time instead of letting it go and watching it tear through the air in mad random loops until it falls, limp and useless. I hold tight to that opening. I will not let that balloon — me — fly off in mad random loops.

My stomach and head join with stomachs and heads everywhere today. Nausea, insomnia, gut pain, jagged breathing, weariness of body and soul — they are etched in faces and sculpted in postures. Grieving and bleeding bend us. Fear swaddles the globe.

Then there are our private fears, yours and mine. Some are constant, some change with living. They wrap us in our own personal swaddling.

And fears beget anger. God knows it is a time for anger. Anger, not violence. Constructive, articulate anger. Where will it come from and who will shape it?

I find myself on the verge of tears. I am shaken by what I read and see, and I’m shaking with a sense of helplessness. So I write about my fear of dogs. I keep the tight grip on that balloon. Still, little by little, I’m letting the air out.

On being friendly

Last week I walked into the vacuum cleaner store, one of those strip-mall shops with modest space. My thoughts of vacuum filters disintegrated abruptly when a brown four-legged colossus, part poodle, part horse, trotted out from the back room and inquired wordlessly exactly what my business was in that space, most of which he occupied.

“He’s friendly!” the voice from the back called out. I swallowed my gasp and tried to look comfortable, but I wasn’t. Another time and place had hold of me.

I was about six when the neighbor’s Irish setter lunged at me, pinned me on my back, and started gnawing my forehead. The words “he won’t hurt you” — first cousin to “he’s friendly” — were fresh in my ears as I went down.

I did not take this quietly: adults appeared instantly and pulled the dog off. I ran screaming home. To say I was terrified is the Great Dane of understatement.

Then rabies shots, which, dear reader, you would not want for your children.

I was an adult before I could be without panic near a dog. That is not hyperbole. To this day, I will not voluntarily go near an unleashed dog. And I’m not enthusiastic about those on leashes.

I’ve known some dogs of endearing charm, and they have softened that childhood memory, but I remain cautious. Dogs are everywhere now, and their adoring owners think “he’s friendly” is proper substitute for a leash, or, like some Jedi mind trick, makes everyone else adore their dog. “He’s friendly” only makes me think “so what’s your point?” Mosquitoes and con men are friendly too.

If your dog’s name is Friendly, and he’s on a leash and closer to you than to me, then tell me he’s Friendly. That would be very friendly.