Walking the Dog

A week ago our beloved 7-year old golden retriever Ginny seemed in perfect health.  Today our vet confirmed that the lumps we found at her throat midweek are from canine lymphoma.  She may not live out the Summer.  Our shock and heartbreak may seem silly to you, unless your life has been enriched and in some ways saved by a dog, as ours have.  A couple weeks ago, before all this went down, I wrote a poem for Ginny that seems sadly prescient now, though the “best of all possible futures” cited there will not happen for her.  I’m sharing it here for what it’s worth.  It’s called “Walking the Dog”.

Ginny

our gentle golden

and I walk off-leash

in the band of woods

along a knoll

by the grade school

our boys attended:

thus Crestwood.

 

We drove over.

She sat upright

on a towel on

Stephen’s seat

in the mini-van,

nose divining rod

dipping out

the window.

 

Eager, probably

wishing I’d drive faster,

if gentle goldens even

think like that — just

to race for squirrels

beneath that copse

of oaks then chase

a tennis ball and

bring it sopping

back to me!

 

Ginny squats just inside

the tree line, beside not on

the trail, then bounds ahead

tail high and wagging:

Who knows what our walk

may bring? A squirrel, a deer,

once tortoises mating, his

chest plate flat and scraping

her helmeted back,

reptilian hands squirming

for purchase and she

seeming to smile patiently

allowing the one thrusting

intrusion her armor

would ever allow.  We

animals — how alien

to each other yet how

in our yearning alike!

 

Or that other time

Ginny came bolting back

tail between her legs

because behind her loped

at twenty paces

in no special hurry

a coyote bony

as the wily cartoon

in chilling pursuit

her cousin – what all dogs

would be, I guess,

without us.

 

Most days it’s just

a trudge I hardly register.

She romps ahead then

waits on her haunches

my guide and example

wondering why he can’t seem

to forget himself for one minute.

I mean, how much better to

nose about, to sniff the riches,

all the variants from yesterday’s

adventure, oh here, see this

dead branch has fallen!

 

Begrudge an hour after work.

Let the girl off leash to run,

let me off keyboard to stroll,

and stretch our legs.

Big deal.

 

Exactly. Because

in the best of all possible

futures – we have just

4 or 5 short human years

before this will be too much

for her. Her fluffy coat

thinned, her muzzle grizzled

and yes how I will cry

that day we lay

her ashes here.

 

Because then you know

all these mundane walks

that mean nothing

but catching the air

will rise past goals and

objectives and balanced

books to strike me

hard across the face.

 

While all I fret over, my

schemes and worry my

grudges and drudgery

add up to less

than that cobweb

brushing my cheek back

when Ginny’s tongue lolled

so giddily on her frolic

ahead on a woodsy

lane and oh too late

I hear it now the world

at my knee said, woof.