Poetry and Writes

To My Dog (WRITE)

*I wrote this after a stressful walk with my dog, Rain (pictured above). This write wasn't timed.*

8/22/18

I took you outside this morning, among the haze from fires in British Columbia, from fires in Eastern Washington. I thought of the men my father and I ran into, when we were backpacking, who said they had come from Mexico, and were nearly finished hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. They said Sweden was burning.

I took you outside this morning, and though my thoughts were elsewhere, my eyes scanned the streets for other approaching dogs. I saw nothing. You squatted and I watched the ash filter through the maple trees, their leaves beginning to turn the color of flame.

I took you outside this morning, the drought weighing hard against me. Rain. What a name for you, during this time. I smiled bitterly. You shook your fur, and I beckoned you to return inside. You pranced along, just a little ahead of me. I thought of Cesar Millan, that expert trainer. I pulled you to my side so you knew I was the one in charge.

I took you outside this morning, and you saw the German shepherd first. It was not a threat; it slogged along beside its owners--a mother and a girl who was maybe six, with a sequined skirt. But you transformed, Rain. Lunging, leaping, pulling, barking, hectic pandemonium. You yanked me off my feet, and my flip-flops came off, and I had to root myself to the grass and restrain you as the German shepherd was led in the other direction. The six-year-old spared me a terrified glance.

I took you outside this morning, and after the encounter I was shivering, shivering. I grabbed your lithe little face in my hands and tried to look you in the eyes, but you were in a different place. Your fur ridged along your lower spine, your pupils wild and your breathing strained. You struggled against the harness--your no-pull, no-aggression harness--and howled, forlorn, at the shepherd's absence. You just want to play, to enjoy canine society, to run off-leash like you're bred to, but you have to put my safety first.

And oh, Rain, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that we don't know your backstory--your life as a stray before the Humane Society rescued you. I'm sorry that we were maybe too ignorant to notice our ignorance, to sense your growing distress. And I'm sorry that you are this way now, and the neighbors' children shy away from you. You're such a sweetheart, who licks, not bites. You got in a fight with the Swansons' dog, Jack, late one December night. Your leashes tangled--Jack came free--he circled you, circled us, and you were afraid of him--this menace stuck on loop--so you did what you thought you had to. You bit the back of Jack's neck, leaving marks and a pinprick of blood. The woman took Jack away, while I was crying and shaking and wrangling you in, screaming sorries to Mrs. Swanson.

And we shuttered you inside, avoided dogs on walks, and you stayed exactly the same. The end.