Regarding dogs - one more thing...

When I was in college, my roommate (and friend), Brian, got a call from home. His dog died. Brian wasn't sure how he should react to the news. I remember he felt bad, sad even, but I don't recall him breaking down, being uncontrollably inconsolable, or distraught. Maybe it was because he was away from home, living the life of a college student. Maybe it was because the distance away, pushed his dog away. Maybe it was because he understood the fact that pets eventually die, and it was something he expected. Whatever the reason, we kind of quietly joked about it. I'd ask him how he was doing. I'd ask him if he needed anything. I'd ask him if he wanted to get a beer to drown out his sorrows. I'd ask him if he needed a hug. The humor helped; at least, I like to think it did.

At the same time, I was taking a poetry class. We were charged with the task of reading poets, explicating their work, imitating their work, and creating our own verse. I decided to write a poem about dogs. About my childhood dog, Barron. I dedicated the poem to Brian, in an effort to put closure on the subject. For me, as much as it was for him. This was my first published poem. I was pretty psyched when I saw it in print. And it goes a little something like this:



I Still Have Your Collar
for Brian Chudik

We got our dog when I was four.
I wanted the white one with grey spots.
My brothers wanted
the long haired, black Lab;
the smallest in the litter.
He only cost eight dollars
at the flea market.
Baron had a white patch of hair on his belly.
Mom called it
the touch of an angel.
I stepped on him.
He whimpered and scared me.

When I was seven, I taught him to sit in one place,
intensely, like the guards at Buckingham Place.
During fluctuations of my voice,
I taught him to growl.
When I became a health freak,
I taught him to eat an apple
between his paws
using his front teeth.
When I was seventeen, I didn’t teach him anything.
I wanted to be alone.

The neighbor’s white poodle was in heat
when Dad hit Baron on the head
with a stick.
The blow knocked his eyes crooked.
He walked around for hours
shaking his head
fixing his eyes.
Baron loved my father.

I unhooked his collar
as the veterinarian injected him
“a three step process:
Saline Flush to ensure catheter works properly
Barbiturate to make him sleepy and relaxed
Final euthanasia drug.”
I saw tears fall down my father’s cheeks,
as Baron’s eyes remained fixed
on his face.