The Dogs of War and Peace

The dog, dying of cancer, Walked into the guest room Where I was trying to sleep. He wasn’t there because Of me. The rug on the floor Belonged to him. He fell asleep so I fell Asleep. Or maybe it was The other way around. Hours later, he woke me With his whimpers. I thought he was inside a nightmare, But, no, he was awake And in pain from The incurable tumors in his belly. I called His name and, being A good dog, he slowly Rose and walked to me. I scratched behind his Ears. I petted his head. I told him I was sad That he was hurting. But he seemed to be Offended by my pity. He walked away, laid Back down on his Rug, and passed gas. And, yes, I know That’s funny, almost Slapstick, but his body Was betraying him. The flatulence was foul. I’d been in the presence Of people dying of cancer. I knew that smell. The dog bent his head And body back at His ass, took in the odor, And growled, growled At Death, that terrible guest, Who was always looking To demand and impose. The dog angrily fled The room and I went back To sleep. The next day, My friends took their dog For one last walk That surprisingly became A run. The dog, near his Terminus, somehow found The strength to loudly Chase every bird For an hour or two. And then, exhausted, Had to be carried Back to his home. That afternoon, My friends ferried Their dog for his last Visit to the vet. They hugged him close As he was euthanized. My friends wept, Then came home, Went into their bedroom, And wept more Behind their door. I wanted to stay, But my family and friends Were waiting for me Back in my home city. I didn’t want to interrupt My friends’ grief, So I handwrote A condolence note, Illustrated it with A winged cartoon dog, And carefully left it On their kitchen table. It seemed childish To memorialize That beautiful dog With amateur art. And it still seems Childish all these years Later. But it was the only Thing I could think to do. Maybe grief turns All of us into amateurs. As my friends continued To weep, I packed my bag And took a yellow cab To the airport. I was Late for my flight, And was sure I’d miss it, But I made it onboard Moments before They closed the door. As the plane ascended, I thought about how Many times that I’ve visited All of my friends, for hours Or days, and then left Their homes. That’s how Life is supposed to work. Friendship celebrates Arrivals and mourns Departures. That’s when We learn how greatly Or inadequately That we love outside Of ourselves. As the plane Rose higher, I thought Of the friends that I’d lost To time and temper. As I’ve aged, I’ve lost Many friends to death. I’ve lost friends because Of their selfishness And I’ve lost other friends Because of my arrogance. And, O, as a child, I lost So many adored dogs To the violence Of my poverty town. My dogs were poisoned. My dogs were torn Apart by feral dogs. My dogs were shot By frustrated hunters Who didn’t get their deer. Some of my dogs Just disappeared. On that airplane, I politely remained Silent as I leaned Against the window, Looked down at a city Not mine, and counted The church steeples, And then I said a prayer For all of the dogs And all of their people. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shermanalexie.substack.com/subscribe