This morning there were two dogs

moving from patch of sun to patch of sun

along the winter carpet – no snow to disguise

the brittle crystals creeping up the fingertips

of bluegrass, singeing the bare tongues

of wilting fern. The sky was blue, you could see

how it varied in shade, slightly, left to right, scored

by reaching peaks of maple and oak. Last night he slept

through the final minutes of a football game

which was out of reach. He woke and walked

from window to window, the dark bleeding

from outside in, during those lost hours where only the fringe

elements habituate – joined by those who fell asleep on the couch

and must make the drowsy, aching climb to bed. Last night,

however, he felt oddly refreshed, going window to window at 3am

with a mug of tea that went cold while he was napping.

The Great Bambino kept a cabbage leaf under his cap

to keep cool in summer – he was trying to understand the night

when this thought crept in. The sort of thought that arrives

when the mind is fatigued, the distant offshoot of the coping

mechanism: cabbage leaves, salt peanuts, a song

by Dizzie Gillespie, some other jazz. He had been drinking.

His mouth was dry and tasteless. He found the old dog

and lay down beside her, muzzle to face. He whispered

thanks to that old dog for being what she was for so long.

This morning he slept late and tried to imagine a life

of rest, relief, infrequent walks, the blind exhilaration

of chasing a squirrel up a tree, a rabbit to a tight thicket,

or pigeons chased by the dozen into the air above

the fountain in the plaza. He found himself sketching her

stretched out over two blankets, determined hers, folded into a bed.

The younger dog perched at the window, fogging the glass

with small yelps as a teasing crow bobbed along the fence.

He poured coffee and took the old dog in his arms

and set her in the car, wrapped in her blankets.

They arrived and she stayed. On the drive home, he wept

thinking of the young dog, feet up on the window sill,

shaking with excitement as his keys rattled at the lock,

how she would tilt her head once she saw he was alone.

How she would run from room to room with a sloppy grin

that will fade into disappointment without companion.

 

— Jim Davis