We lost our family dog this year and I've never been happier, for myself and for the animal. (He's been pretty miserable practically since the day we got him.) One day I'll have to sit some pet-lovers down and have people really explain what they're getting out of the equation. To me it seems like a child you can't talk with, a pack animal that never carries anything and an ambulatory poop container all wrapped up in an odorous, furry, wet, ill-kempt mess. But that's just me.
But since I'm already on the subject, here's a little poem about dogs. I mentioned A.E. Stallings offhand last time, and it got me thinking about this poem, which I hadn't read for a few years.
An Ancient Dog Grave,
Unearthed During Construction of the Athens Metro
A.E. Stallings
It is not the curled up bones, nor even the grave
That stops me, but the blue beads on the collar
(Whose leather has long gone the way of hides) —
The ones to ward off evil. A careful master
Even now protects a favorite, just so.
But what evil could she suffer after death?
I picture the loyal companion, bereaved of her master,
Trotting the long, dark way that slopes to the river,
Nearly trampled by all the nations marching down,
One war after another, flood or famine,
Her paws sucked by the thick, caliginous mud,
Deep as her dewclaws, near the riverbank.
In the press for the ferry, who will lift her into the boat?
Will she cower under the pier and be forgotten,
Forever howling and whimpering, tail tucked under?
What stranger pays her passage? Perhaps she swims,
Dog paddling the current of oblivion.
A shake as she scrambles ashore sets the beads jingling.
And then, that last, tense moment — touching noses
Once, twice, three times, with unleashed Cerberus.
That stops me, but the blue beads on the collar
(Whose leather has long gone the way of hides) —
The ones to ward off evil. A careful master
Even now protects a favorite, just so.
But what evil could she suffer after death?
I picture the loyal companion, bereaved of her master,
Trotting the long, dark way that slopes to the river,
Nearly trampled by all the nations marching down,
One war after another, flood or famine,
Her paws sucked by the thick, caliginous mud,
Deep as her dewclaws, near the riverbank.
In the press for the ferry, who will lift her into the boat?
Will she cower under the pier and be forgotten,
Forever howling and whimpering, tail tucked under?
What stranger pays her passage? Perhaps she swims,
Dog paddling the current of oblivion.
A shake as she scrambles ashore sets the beads jingling.
And then, that last, tense moment — touching noses
Once, twice, three times, with unleashed Cerberus.
She's very talented, has a real ear for the sounds of poetry, but I really appreciate the way her poems are balanced and even. Despite dark subject matter (which also scores big points with me), she has a way of taking the long view on everything, I guess appropriate for someone so steeped in the culture of ancient Greece.
I think if anything could get me to appreciate furry, twitchy, wet, growling messes, this poem could do it.
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