Harley

Let’s face it he’s an aging Chocolate Lab,
Overweight, domesticated to the point
That he will rarely go out without me,
Even in the backyard, doesn’t chase cats
Anymore or rabbits or even the squirrels
On the deck, sees them and walks by,
Even when they‘re close and temptingly
Run off, slowly enough to catch, he goes
By them to his favorite spot or two and
Does his business, then he barks at the door
As if he has been a long term exile, left
To a cold cruel world; but on our walks,
The one we take every day at the same
Time, he returns, though briefly, to being
A dog, instinctual, primal even, his nose
To the ground he charges from spot to
Spot, pauses for long periods as if deciding
As if he recognizes something of importance
Then trots on, stops again; it’s on these
Walks when his species, his breed come
Through, he becomes a drug sniffing dog,
One of those state police dogs in search
Of a criminal or someone lost in the woods,
Or one of those dogs after the earthquake
Looking for the living and the dead;
On our walks he plays, for a short time,
All the roles we assign dogs, plays them
Convincingly, but he tires quickly now,
Wants the shortcut home, tugs that way,
Ready to get back home to the comforts:
A bowl of water, a few dog-treats and
The family room’s couch with its dreams
Of chasing cats and finally catching them.

-- J. K. Durick