Super-Sized Series

 Dog Tales

  

Ben and Sol photo by Albert L. Knutson

Ben's Dog by Sharon Waller Knutson

 His name is Sol, our son says
as he enters our Arizona home
with the dog on a short leash,
but I hear Salt because he is white
and pure as the substance scattered
in the sea where they live in Virginia.

 A rescue. Some kind of hound,
Ben says. I see white lab head
and sleek spotted greyhound body
as he sprints across the tile floor
and lands in my lap, licking my face,
and English Pointer in the photo.

His left leg lifts, tail stiffens
and nose points like a finger
at a covey of quail landing
on the rocks of our waterfalls
while he stands silent by the side
of our sailor son collared and leashed

I can’t let him off the lead or he will take off,
our son says as Sol strains and sniffs
the trail where they take their daily
hike up the rocky butte he climbed
as a kid. Sol sits patiently as Ben
plucks the Cholla needles out of his paws.

The only time Sol barks is when Ben
steals his rubber duck. From the windowsill
the dog silently stares at the mule deer
drinking at the pond and bolts
like the deer as our hand reaches
for the camera or he hears a loud bang.

As he whimpers, our son cradles his hound
like he did his babies. Sol follows Ben
from room to room and runs from door
to door when he goes grocery shopping.
Sol is still watching at the window for Ben,
says his girlfriend a year after his death.

From The Vultures are Circling 

“Ben’s Dog” is dedicated to:
Benjamin Karl Knutson
Born Oct. 30, 1976.
Died May 25,2021.

 

The Season of the Big Dog Wind by Joan Leotta

Our son, Joe called it the big dog wind
the one that chases you down
like a playful Irish Setter  

as you walk along,
jumping on you when you
least expect it.
Joe called it the big dog wind,
that sudden blast of air from the sky
strong enough to push you down
on the sidewalk
forcing the breath out of you.
Breath of  mountains,
he is strong beyond
what he realizes.
Even his howl makes it hard to walk
hard even to stand up straight.
Joe called it a big dog wind.

Today, recalling that,
when I felt such a wind
bearing down on me,
I cried out "Heel, wind, heel!"

Along the path, as I walked by
bare birch branches rattled
in a laughing response
to my exhortation of the wind.
Wind himself seemed to take
no heed of me, although I thought
I heard a chuckle within the howl,
as he continued on his way

First appeared in Verse-Virtual

“The Season of the Big Dog Wind” is dedicated to:
Joseph Gabriel Leotta
Named for both of his grandfathers.
Born April 28, 1982
Died March 30, 2002

 

Miracle Muffin by Laurie Kuntz

Muffin was a rescue,
but aren't we all rescues in one way or another?

If we speak of dog years, she had many, and her name
was not our choice, but who can ever choose a calling?
 
Part Shiba, and parts unknown, she was a promised dog,
my son's first friend, when we moved to places unknown--

new house, new street, new routes.  
A companion he needed until he didn't.
 
Then, like a giving tree, she started to slow, her limbs drooped
her gait wobbled, and her kidneys faltered, then came back filtered like a prayer,

giving her a tad of time to fetch the bargain of days we threw at her,
and each time this happened, the vet called her a miracle, 

but aren't we all miracles at one time or another? 

  

Bilbo and Me by Joe Cottonwood

I rent a garage for a wood shop,
and immediately loping up the driveway
big Bilbo adopts me. 

With lion's mane collar and giant paws
Bilbo sleeps on a folded furniture blanket.
If a stranger approaches, Bilbo springs to his feet
with watchful glare until handshake, then sniffs
those same fingers to store in his file.

Bilbo knows the message of every muffler,
the flavor of every garbage can,
shows me secret special smells
on many a walk as we wait for glue to set,
for oil to dry, for clients to buy.

Once each day Bilbo trots to a pink stucco house
where a woman in a wheelchair sits on the porch.
He returns with snout stinking of liver and grease.

I tweeze ticks, dust fleas, brush his neglected mane.
I try to approach the pink stucco house
but always Bilbo blocks me with his body, bares
teeth and mutters about ownership, about loyalty,
about playing the hand you're dealt.

I find a larger garage, better neighborhood.
Bilbo is skeptical but watches from his blanket
which I haven't the heart to pack as I load
the old Chevy truck until I heft the final box.
Bilbo in his dignity rises on hind legs
with paws against my chest.
First time ever, he licks my face.
I stagger against his weight, nearly fall backward.
His eyes are closed. Tongue, almost dry.
The tickle, the wisdom, those whiskers.

In the mirror I see Bilbo standing mid-street,
watching without pursuit. Another block,
and I must stop to clear my eyes.
Bilbo with his gravitas, his big bushy tail
trots toward the front porch,
the pink stucco house.

Previous appeared in I-70 Review

 

 Celestial Dogs by Judith Waller Carroll

It’s National Dog Day and how I wish Stella
were still with us, her sharp terrier mind
sensing my thoughts, or Jake, who loved

the taste of butter and the smell of the ocean,  
who studied my shoes when I reached for the car keys
to see if he had to stay home or got to ride along.

And happy go lucky Ollie, galumphing to the pond,
picking up speed as he got closer and grinning
as he swam back, despite the tennis ball in his mouth.

Sometimes I gaze at Canis Major and see a hybrid hound
with Ollie’s barrel chest, Jake’s spaniel tail
and aristocratic head, and Stella’s short, sturdy legs
leading the charge across the sky. 

 

Two Poems by Betsy Mars

Return to Sender

 I am still waiting
to let go of Loki, hoping
God will see fit to return her
in some form or another
that I will recognize
when it happens
when I see her eyes
I will know all
is right and take my leave
with her, then I will
no longer grieve for her,
but that’s a lie,
for I will always miss
her mottled tongue
licking my hand, pulling
at my heart’s unraveling sleeve.

First appeared in Silver Birch Press (I Am Still Waiting Series)

 

What is Essential 

 Your honey ears perk up as I read you
The Little Prince; like the fox you know
language is the source of misunderstandings.
You sniff and lick instead, your tongue velvet –
like rose petals – your teeth thorns,
poised to protect.
 
You know better than to seek admiration
or count stars like currency;
you get drunk on games of fetch,
know day from night
without the benefit of lamplight.
 
You understand the necessity
of keeping the baobabs at bay
and raking out the volcanos –
even the ones that might be extinct.
You dig out roots in the yard
and rake the carpet into submission.
 
We have our rites and our rituals.
I have walked and watered you.
You warm my feet at night.
You have tamed me and wait
patiently while I am taken
away by a migration of wild birds.
 
In the end, you pull me back,
a well singing to my soul:
she loves me, she loves me.

First published in Red Wolf Journal

 

Two Poems by Donna Hilbert

Walk in Winter 

 My dog and I stop to watch
as one by one, Heron brings
twigs washed up on shore
to spindly palms that line
the beach-side streets.

It’s early winter, but Heron
doesn’t seem to know, or mind,
that rain and wind will follow
bringing weather far less kind.

To what will come,
my sweet old dog is also blind.
O, for the peace of dogs who know
nothing of winter and letting go

Aimez-vous Brahms?

Tula, the poodle, rises to music,
walks the hallway to what calls,
lies down next to the sound: Brahms,
the only music that moves her

Both from Thermody

 

 Buzzy by Neil Creighton
 
The Indian Pacific from Perth
has arrived on Platform 2.

 We poured from the train.
The platform surged with people.
Baggage handlers scurried around.
Grey day. Spiteful rain. Cold wind.

Better check on your dog, son.
 
Buzzy was in a dog-cage in the baggage car.
He was eight. I was sixteen.
His puppy self had lain in my arms.
Together we paddled the glittering lake,
he in the front, alert, mouth open, excited.
He loped alongside my bicycle.
He bounded comically through high grass.
He lay at my feet in the evening.
He was my brother and my friend.

There’s a dog loose on the tracks.

 I barely heard that announcement
as I wandered down to the baggage car.
I’d checked on him on each stop.
Now I’d take him to our new home.

I’ve come for my dog.

 Jeez, mate, sorry, he’s gone,
We tried to get him out of his cage.
He held back and slipped his collar
and he bolted.

I ran through the crowd, searching the tracks,
calling and whistling again and again.
No dog loped up happily to lick my hand.

Finally, I stopped.
He was gone,
3,400 kilometres from his home,
running in a strange city
full of noise and trams and cars and trains,
increasingly desperate, hungry, alone.

 The day was cloudy, cold and wet.
I reached for my sunglasses
to hide my grief, though tears flowed freely.

 Buzzy, my dear friend,
don’t run too far.
Find someone to take you in.
Let them love you like I do.

In a sad huddle, my family waited.
I walked past them towards the platform steps.
They seemed so very far away.

 First published as “Sammy” in Silver Birch Press

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Neil Creighton