Dog (August)

The hunter or the hunted or neither, he appears from the undergrowth, eyes forlorn or storm, stoop speedy then languid; accidents can happen, or not; he has tail in the air ready to rise to an occasion; and four feet tiptoe that leap as one at a flying ball.

Descended from the wolf, she is contour-shaved and curl-primped, parades from carpet to paved patio, but it’s too cold; retreats neatly petitely indoors again for the couch cushions, their embroidered sylvan patterns a reminder of a time she cannot quite summon up.

The calm within the rowdy confines of peakhour carriages is the seeing-eye below the seat of her blind mistress, waiting for the slightest footstep near, movement of walkingstick, or sign of sentience; waiting all well for their stop, their suburb of puddled usual footpaths.

The composer of several hundred symphonies, so many collections of biting thoughts with imprints everywhere, importantly he sniffs around the café chairs for leftover croissant; his head markings like a beret, he wrote the book on canines, answers to Anthropos.

Stretching everywhere on his back, limbs sketching the raw points of a constellation, Blue rolls to a stand, shakes thought back into place, eyes the August blossom, and is free as a bird until thirst starts or food calls or sleep wondrous helper beckons again from the basket.

Why, empathy with owner is contagious, so the dog yawns as owner yawns, smiles if owner smiles, leaps to attention when owner budges an inch; empathy that has them together power-walking swiftly across the park, damp as it is; empathy that only one side tests with a system of charts, or questions.

And when they go away under the table, moan in the corner of moon, get under the feet and under the radar, then instead of that lasting they turn time into fun, of a sudden show up with the lead in their mouth pacing for a run, are out in it where hair waves free in the wind and sun.