I could tell many more stories about Sammy, they’re endless. But I’ll just tell you the unexpected, joyful conclusion. The dog officer resigned! And the next officer was a different sort; he too remembered and missed the old days. So when he found Sammy he would simply call him into his truck and drive him home. In this way, he lived a long and happy life, with many friends.
This is Sammy’s story. But I also think there are one or two poems in it somewhere. Maybe it’s what life was like in this dear town years ago, and how a lot of us miss it.
Or maybe it’s about the wonderful things that may happen if you break the ropes that are holding you.
PERCY
Our new dog, named for the beloved poet,
ate a book which unfortunately we had
left unguarded.
Fortunately it was the Bhagavad Gita,
of which many copies are available.
Every day now, as Percy grows
into the beauty of his life, we touch
his wild, curly head and say,
“Oh, wisest of little dogs.”
SCHOOL
You’re like a little wild thing
that was never sent to school.
Sit, I say, and you jump up.
Come, I say, and you go galloping down the sand
to the nearest dead fish
with which you perfume your sweet neck.
It is summer.
How many summers does a little dog have?
Run, run, Percy.
This is our school.
LITTLE DOG’S RHAPSODY IN THE NIGHT
He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I’m awake, or awake enough
he turns upside down, his four paws
in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.
“Tell me you love me,” he says.
“Tell me again.”
Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over
he gets to ask.
I get to tell.
TIME PASSES
And now Percy is getting brazen.
“Let’s down the beach, baby,” he says.
“Let’s shake it with a little barking.
Let’s find dead things, and explore them,
by mouth, if possible.”
Or maybe the leavings of Paul’s horse (after which,
forgive me for mentioning it, he is fond of kissing).
Ah, this is the thing that comes to each of us.
The child grows up.
And, according to our own ideas, is practically asunder.
I understand it.
I struggle to celebrate.
I say, with a stiff upper lip familiar to many:
Just look at that curly-haired child now, he’s his own man.
UNTITLED
Just before Percy had his operation
he had one long rendezvous with a
little dog named Penny. As it happened
there was no result. But, oh, how
Percy smiled and smiled all the way
home.
PERCY WAKES ME
Percy wakes me and I am not ready.
He has slept all night under the covers.
Now he’s eager for action: a walk, then breakfast.
So I hasten up. He is sitting on the kitchen counter
where he is not supposed to be.
How wonderful you are, I say. How clever, if you
needed me,
to wake me.
He thought he would hear a lecture and deeply
his eyes begin to shine.
He tumbles onto the couch for more compliments.
He squirms and squeals; he has done something
that he needed
and now he hears that it is okay.
I scratch his ears, I turn him over
and touch him everywhere. He is
wild with the okayness of it. Then we walk, then
he has breakfast, and he is happy.
This is a poem about Percy.
This is a poem about more than Percy.
Think about it.
THE SWEETNESS OF DOGS
What do you say, Percy? I am thinking
of sitting out on the sand to watch
the moon rise. It’s full tonight.
So we go
and the moon rises, so beautiful it
makes me shudder, makes me think about
time and space, makes me take
measure of myself: one iota
pondering heaven. Thus we sit, myself
perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich
it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,
leans against me and gazes up into
my face. As though I were just as wonderful
as the perfect moon.
PERCY SPEAKS WHILE I AM DOING TAXES
First of all, I do not want to be doing this.
Second of all, Percy does not want me
to be doing this,
bent over the desk like a besieged person
with a dull pencil and innumerable lists
of numbers.
Outside the water is blue, the sky is clear,
the tide rising.
Percy, I say, this has to be done. This is
essential. I’ll be finished eventually.
“Keep me in your thoughts,” he replies. “Just because
I can’t count to ten doesn’t mean
I don’t remember yesterday, or anticipate today.
I’ll give you ten more minutes,” and he does.
Then shouts—who could resist—his
favorite words: Let’s go!
PERCY, WAITING FOR RICKY
Your friend is coming, I say
to Percy and name a name
and he runs to the door, his
wide mouth in its laugh-shape,
and waves, since he has one, his tail.
Emerson, I am trying to live,
as you said we must, the examined life.
But there are days I wish
there was less in my head to examine,
not to speak of the busy heart. How
would it be to be Percy, I wonder, not
thinking, not weighing anything, just running forward.
PERCY (2002–2009)
This—I said to Percy when I had left
our bed and gone
out onto the living room couch where
he found me apparently doing nothing—this
is called thinking.
It’s something people do,
not being entirely children of the earth,
like a dog or a tree or a flower.
His eyes questioned such an activity.
“Well, okay,” he said. “If you say so. Whatever
it is. Actually
I like kissing better.”
And next to me,
tucked down his curly head
and, sweet as a flower, slept.
“FOR I WILL CONSIDER MY DOG PERCY”
For I will consider my dog Percy.
For he was made small but brave of heart.
For if he met another dog he would kiss her in kindness.
For when he slept he snored only a little.
For he could be silly and noble in the same moment.
For when he spoke he remembered the trumpet and when
he scratched he struck the floor like a drum.
For he ate only the finest food and drank only the
purest of water, yet would nibble of dead fish also.
For he came to me impaired and therefore certain of
short life, yet thoroughly rejoiced in each day.
For he took his medicines without argument.
For he played easily with the neighborhood’s bull
mastiff.
For when he came upon mud he splashed through it.
For he was an instrument for the children to learn
benevolence upon.
For he listened to poems as well as love-talk.
For when he sniffed it was as if he were being
pleased by every part of the world.
For when he sickened he rallied as many times as
he could.
For he was a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For we humans can seek self-destruction in ways
he never dreamed of.
For he took actions both cunning and reckless, yet
refused always to offer himself to be admonished.
For his sadness though without words was
understandable.
For there was nothing sweeter than his peace
when at rest.
For there was nothing brisker than his life when
in motion.
For he was of the tribe of Wolf.
For when I went away he would watch for me at
the window.
For he loved me.
For he suffered before I found him, and never
forgot it.
For he loved Anne.
For when he lay down to enter sleep he did not argue
about whether or not God made him.
For he could fling himself upside down and laugh
a true laugh.
For he loved his friend Ricky.
For he would dig holes in the sand and then let
Ricky lie in them.
For often I see his shape in the clouds and this is
a continual blessing.
THE FIRST TIME PERCY CAME BACK
The first time Percy came back
he was not sailing on a cloud.
He was loping along the sand as though
he had come a great way.
“Percy,” I cried out, and reached to him—
those white curls—
but he was unreachable. As music
is present yet you can’t touch it.
“Yes, it’s all different,” he said.
“You’re going to be very surprised.”
But I wasn’t thinking of that. I only
wanted to hold him. “Listen,” he said.
“I miss that too.
And now you’ll be telling stories
of my coming back
and they won’t be false, and they won’t be true,
but they’ll be real.”
And. then, as he used to, he said, “Let’s go!”
And we walked down the beach together.
RICKY TALKS ABOUT TALKING
Ricky, can you explain how it is that
Anne and I can talk with you, as we did
with Percy too, and we all understand
each other? Is it a kind of miracle?
“It’s no miracle,” said Ricky. “It’s
actually simple. When you or Anne talk,
I listen. When I talk you listen, as
you did with Percy.”
Of course we listen!
“No, I mean really listen. Here’s a
story, and you don’t have to visit many
houses to find it. One person is talking,
the other one is not really listening.
Someone can look like they are but they’re
actually thinking about something they
want to say, or their minds are just
wandering. Or they’re looking at that
little box people hold in their hands these
days. And people get discouraged, so they
quit trying. And the very quiet people,
you may have noticed, are often the sad
people.”
Ricky, you have really thought about this.
So we can talk together because we really
listen, and that’s because . . .
“Yes, because we care.”
THE WICKED SMILE
“Please, please, I think I haven’t eaten
for days.”
What? Ricky, you had a huge supper.
“I did? My stomach doesn’t remember.
Oh, I think I’m fading away. Please
make me breakfast and I’ll tell you
something you don’t know.”
He ate rapidly.
Okay, I said. What were you going to
tell me?
He smiled the wicked smile. “Before we
came over, Anne already gave me my breakfast,”
he said.
Be prepared. A dog is adorable and noble.
A dog is a true and loving friend. A dog
is also a hedonist.
THE TRAVELER
Ricky, your ancesters are from Cuba,
right?
Says Ricky, “So I’m told.”
But you were born in Florida?
“I was a baby, how would I know?
But that’s what I’m told.”
And you’ve lived in Massachusetts and
other states and also Mexico and
now Florida again, and heaven knows
what other places you may travel to.
Are you an American, or what?
He shrugged his shoulders casually and
smiled. “Je suis un chien du monde,”
he said.
SHOW TIME
And here come the dogs. Brushed, trimmed,
polished.
“What on earth have they done to them!”
said Ricky. “They’re half shaved. And
wearing pillows on their heads. And
where are their tails?”
It’s the rules, I said.
“And look at those women trying to run.
They sure don’t look like you.”
Thank you, I said.
“I’m getting a headache looking at this.
I have to bark!” And he began.
It does no good to bark at the television,
I said. I’ve tried it too. So he stopped.
“If I ever meet one of these dogs I’m going
to invite him to come here, where he can
be a proper dog.”
Okay, I said. But remember, you can’t fix
everything in the world for everybody.
“However,” said Ricky, “you can’t do
anything at all unless you begin. Haven’t
I heard you say that once or twice, or
maybe a hundred times?”
A BAD DAY
Ricky, why are you barking and trying
to rip up the couch? Can’t you settle
down? It’s been a long day.
“It sure has. First you forgot to take
me out. Then you went to the market
and heaven knows where else. And my
dinner was late. And our walk was
short. And now you’re supposed to
be on the floor playing with me but,
no, you’re doing something else. So I
thought I’d give this couch a little
distress.”
Well, don’t. Be a good boy.
“Honestly, what do you expect? Like
you I�
�m not perfect, I’m only human.”
HENRY
“What is that?” said Ricky as Henry
came through the door.
That’s Henry, I said. He’s a bulldog
and he’s come to stay with us with my
friend Linda.
“He’s a horse,” said Ricky. “Already my
heart is pounding.”
Yes, he’s big, he’s supposed to be.
Say hello to him.
“Really. Well hello, Henry. I hope
you don’t gobble up all my toys.”
Henry: Snort, snort.
Ricky: (to me) “He’s not very good with
words, is he.”
Henry, after another snort, clambered
onto the couch.
Ricky shouted, “There isn’t
room for both of us!”
Sure there is. Just move over, and
give yourself a little time to know
him.
Ricky sat closer, but with a nervous
look.
It was a wonderful week. My friend
and I talked, we walked on the beach,
Ricky and Henry went swimming, they
dug a hole together, no toys got
eaten.
Finally they had to leave. Ricky by
that time was friendly with limping,
lumbering, fifteen-year-old Henry.
“Bye, bye, Henry,” he said.
“Snort, snort,” said Henry.
Then they were gone.
Said Ricky, “He really is as big as
a horse, but actually a very sweet
horse. I hope he comes again.”
HOW A LOT OF US BECOME FRIENDS
One day on the beach Ricky met a dog
just his size. Her name is Lucy,
and she is very pretty.
“Wow,” said Ricky.
Naturally, I met Lucy’s mother, Theresa,
at the same time.
It happens that Ricky’s full name is