Poems About Dogs

The dog does not remember your promotion. The dog does not remember your argument with your mother. The dog does not remember the thing you said that you wish you hadn't. The dog remembers: the sound of the leash. That's it. That click of metal, that tiny symphony that means the world is about to happen, and the dog's whole body becomes a question mark of joy. I want to live the way my dog hears a leash. All in. No context. No history of walks that were too short or weather that was wrong. Just: this one. This walk. This exact moment of being alive and moving forward and smelling absolutely everything. My dog forgives me before I've apologized. This is either stupid or enlightened. I've decided it's enlightened. My dog sits by the door at 5:17 every day— not because he can read a clock but because his body knows something that my body has forgotten: that the best part of any day is the part where someone you love comes home. I am trying to learn this. To sit by the door of my own life and wait for the good thing with the same faith that it will come. The dog is right. It always comes. The leash clicks. The door opens. And the whole world smells brand new.

We took the same route. Past the mailbox you always had opinions about. Past the yard with the cat you never stopped believing you'd catch someday. Past the spot where you found that sandwich in 2019 and I swear you smiled. You were slower today. I matched your pace the way you've matched mine for thirteen years— without comment, without complaint, without needing to know where we were going as long as we went together. The vet said months ago. We bought you months. Good months. Bacon-for-breakfast months. Sleeping-on-the-bed- even-though-we-said-no months. You earned them all of them by being the only one who was happy— genuinely, delusionally, tail-waggingly happy— to see me every single time I walked through the door. Even when I was only gone for five minutes. Even when I forgot the treat. Even when I was the worst version of myself and everyone else could tell. You couldn't tell. Or you didn't care. Same thing, with dogs. I carried you home from that last walk. You were too tired. You put your head on my chest and I felt a heartbeat that has been the metronome of my life for thirteen years slow down like a song that knows it's ending. I held you. That was my job from the first day— hold this small, ridiculous, perfect thing and keep it safe. I held you until the holding was all that was left. Good boy. Best boy. The only one who ever loved me exactly as much as I needed without being asked. Go chase that cat.

I told my teacher the dog ate it. The dog looked shocked. He brought my worksheet from the hall, placed it neatly at her feet, and sat beside the evidence. Now he is class monitor. I am rewriting page two. Next time I need an excuse, I will choose a less honest pet.