Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Thanks to Linda Bullock for this fine poem about a rescue dog. We love them. My family has four and my daughter and granddaughter have been fostering them for several years now. 

For Mollie

Mollie is a rescue dog,
a Golden Retriever
with PTSD.
If I close the bathroom door
she parks her bum outside,
whimpers loudly
and head butts the door.
When I asked her
to cease and desist
she looked injured,
then advised,
“I’m just doing my job
Have you not heard of
Dogs Without Borders?”

Mollie is shamelessly
addicted to crotches,
but to her credit,
has no gender preference.
If you find it offensive
and shoo her away,
she’ll jump up in apology
and cover your face
with slobbery kisses.
I used to chastise her,
but now I go with
a choreographed response
taught to me by my mother-
First I raise my eyebrows,
as if somewhat astonished
and then furrow my brow
as I turn down my mouth.
These actions are followed by
a barely perceptible but significant sniff,
an exaggerated shoulder shrug
with head turned to the side
and a deliberate obfuscation like:
“Who knew?...problem with boundaries...
must take after me”
Thank God only I know
she drinks from the toilet.

She sleeps on the floor
right beside my bed,
with her front paws tucked into
my preferably unwashed ,
tattered pink slippers;
parfum de sweaty feet
with strong notes of damp dog
co-mingle to produce
her signature scent.
When it’s time to wake up
she buries her nose
into my arm pit.

She likes nothing more
than to swim in the ocean,
repeatedly retrieving,
a bright orange kong.
One very hot day
I decided to go with her.
As soon as I took
my very first stroke,
she set up a frenzy of barking,
frantically paddling
in tight circles around me.
In the end, I gave up,
grabbed on to her collar
and allowed her
to tow me to shore.

How perfect is that?
My rescue dog acts out
the inner reality
of who rescued who.

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