July 31: "The Revenant," Fur Babies, Dumb Ones

Billy Collins is haunted . . . 

The Revenant

by: Billy Collins

I am the dog you put to sleep, 

as you like to call the needle of oblivion, 

come back to tell you this simple thing: 

I never liked you--not one bit. 

When I licked your face, 

I thought of biting off your nose. 

When I watched you toweling yourself dry, 

I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap. 

I resented the way you moved, 

your lack of animal grace, 

the way you would sit in a chair to eat, 

a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand. 

I would have run away, 

but I was too weak, a trick you taught me 

while I was learning to sit and heel, 

and--greatest of insults--shake hands without a hand. 

I admit the sight of the leash 

would excite me 

but only because it meant I was about 

to smell things you had never touched. 

You do not want to believe this, 

but I have no reason to lie. 

I hated the car, the rubber toys, 

disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives. 

The jingling of my tags drove me mad. 

You always scratched me in the wrong place. 

All I ever wanted from you 

was food and fresh water in my metal bowls. 

While you slept, I watched you breathe 

as the moon rose in the sky. 

It took all of my strength 

not to raise my head and howl. 

Now I am free of the collar, 

the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater, 

the absurdity of your lawn, 

and that is all you need to know about this place 

except what you already supposed 

and are glad it did not happen sooner-- 

that everyone here can read and write, 

the dogs in poetry, the cats and the others in prose.

I often wonder if dogs simply tolerate humans, like Collins' revenant.  At night, my puppy usually climbs onto the couch beside me, rolls over on her back so that I can scratch her stomach.  I oblige, sometimes spending ten minutes digging my fingernails into her fur and belly.  However, if I take out my phone for a picture, she quickly rolls away and jumps down, looking at me as if I've just smeared shit on her snout.  

We like to think that, as owners, we are in charge.  However, that feeling of power quickly disappears when our dogs start to make that terrible sound dogs always make right before they decide to throw up.  Suddenly, we owners are scrambling, begging loudly, "No, no, no , no, no--hold on, hold on, hold on," as we rush our dogs out the door.  

Dogs aren't dummies.  They can make us jump up and move fast when they want.  Most people believe we train our dogs, but I believe it's the other way 'round--our dogs train us.  When my dog rings the bells attached to our front door, my wife or I immediately move.  Quickly.  If my dog stands in front of me, stock still, eyes like scalpels, I know she's either hungry or tired, and I move.  Quickly.

See what I mean?  Humans are the dumb ones.  Our dogs allow us to maintain the impression that we're the masters.  In reality, all our fur babies have to do is press wet noses into our palms or faces, and we spring into action, doing exactly what they want us to do.

Excuse Saint Marty.  He has to take his puppy outside so she can bark at the rabbits.

Photo courtesy of Abby Berry