January 8: "Dog," First Day Back, Dog Dreams

Billy Collins watches his dog sleep . . . 

Dog

by:  Billy Collins

When she runs in her sleep,

eyelids twitching,

legs churning sideways on the floor,

I wonder if she's chasing

a squirrel or being chased

by an angry farmer waving a rake.

Yes, just like Billy Collins, I've watched my puppy twitch and moan in her slumber.  Legs spasming.  Lips puffing and blowing with suppressed barks.  And I've also wondered what dogs dream--squirrels? angry farmers? running with a wolf pack? bowls of cooked hamburger?

I survived my first day back at work.  Not gonna lie--I eased back into my duties.  Edited and published a podcast.  Answered a pile of emails and phone messages.  Put together a monthly board report.  Messed up a monthly board report.  Put off fixing a monthly board report until tomorrow.  Hosted an event in the evening.  Drove home.  Collapsed on the couch.

Last week, I spent a lot of time with my puppy.  Taking her for walks.  Watching movies with her.  (Turns out, she's a big fan of Christmas with the Kranks and The Bishop's Wife.)  And napping.  Dogs like their naps, especially on furniture they're not supposed to be on.

I watched my puppy twitch and run in her sleep, her little paws working across some dreamscape of snow or dirt or grass.  Little grunts and groans and sighs escaping her snout.  And I did what Billy Collins does in the poem--tried to imagine what she was chasing or being chased by.

I like to think that she was dreaming of me throwing her ball.  Or of the rabbits that haunt our backyard all year long, leaving evidence of their leaps and startles in the fresh snow or mud.  Of long walks around Lake Bancroft, barking at geese and blackbirds.  I want her dreams to be of things that fill her tiny body with joy.

And really, isn't that what we all want and deserve?  To have our days and nights brimming with people and places and experiences that make us feel completely happy.  We all deserve dog lives and dog dreams.  Getting and receiving unconditional love.

At the end of this very long day, Saint Marty is ready to curl up on the back of the couch and bark at some passing cars.

May 8: Poet of the Week, James Scannell McCormick, "Dog"

James Scannell McCormick is the Poet of the Week.

I went to school with Scannell way back in the early 1990s, when he was running marathons and finishing up his PhD in creative writing at Western Michigan University.  He was one of my favorite people during my time in Kalamazoo.  Funny and Catholic and Irish.  We really hit it off.

The last communication I had with Scannell was right before I got married.  We sent him an invitation to the wedding, and he sent back a beautiful card.  Then he sort of disappeared from my life, the way friends do sometimes.

I came across a poem online a few days ago, and it brought back a storm of wonderful memories.

So Saint Marty is going to embrace those memories for a week.

Dog

(Intermezzo for Charlie)

by:  James Scannell McCormick

It’s all in the left hand, says your mistress. Brahms
Is all in the left hand. Why does she bother
With the piano at all, Charlie, you stretching from flews

To dewclaws on the sleepy carpet, and your leash hanging
So unoccupied behind the door?  Hot August afternoons and scent
Of the salt sea—those are the days that should

Be yours, dog:  your pushed-in muzzle was bred for
No good reason except to gnaw your rump and stub
Of tail, to snap at the frenzied buzz of rainbow

Scarabs.  Shaking the phlegm from your eyes, you’re the guardian
Of Belmont Heights, of the quiet limit of the world.
Hey, Boo!  Hey, Booger!  Hey, Monkey-face, Pig-face! calls

Your master, who makes skinned tennis balls drop miraculously from
The absolute blue of heaven. Why shouldn’t the whole world
Be Monterey jack in your dish, chew toys and scairdy-

Cats, Thai-beef morsels, watchbands, and ice-cubes that you
Take so delicately in your underbiting jaws?  You live in
A truer grace: Good boy! Yeah! What a good boy!