Dog's Life


He's lying with his chin on his forepaws,
my dog, and looking at me, his eyes turned
upward because I'm on the bed and he's
on the floor. Where a dog belongs, even
if the ground's merely floor. He'd rather be
outside. Where a dog belongs. But I can't
leave the house today--I'm sick as a dog,
you could say, although I don't eat my own puke.
When I try to throw up, however, I
pretend to. That usually does the trick.
Then I stagger back to bed, where he waits
--lying where I've lain because it's warm, I guess
Because he likes my odor, I guess. Or
because he's trying to fool me. He can't
--I'm too smart for that. Get down, you fleabag,
I say. He does and I pet him. Then I
fall where I've been and where he's been and
I'm a different animal altogether,
smelling somewhat like him, and taking on
any hair he's shed there. What does he take
from me? He's back on the floor, in the same
old posture, looking bored and lonely. Can't
go out today, I remind him, as I
close my eyes and see green grass and trees and
blue sky and red and yellow flowers. And
I throw him a stick and he fetches it.
Well, almost. This time he brings it halfway
back. I open my eyes and say, Good dream.
That's when he lifts his head and begins to
move his tail. Settle down, boy, I say. Can't
go out now, I say again. He lowers
his head once more and sighs a deep sigh, out
of boredom and loneliness and a bit
of sympathy--he knows I'm sick. At least
I like to think so. I fall asleep--when
I wake up again he's on the bed, head
on my chest, dog-breath panting on my face.
I reach to put my hand around his neck
and he intercepts it with his teeth, but
gently. Leggo, boy, I say. He does. Then
I scratch him behind the ears and his eyes
shut and I just know he's dreaming of me,
he's dreaming of me and it's a good dream,
of being fed or caressed or freed from
the leash. Of digging a hole to bury
a bone or dig it up again. And of
bringing it to me as if to say, This
is what we are, what we came from, what holds
us together, what we're returning to.
That's pretty smart for a dog. Pretty smart
for a person, too. And way, way wiser
because he doesn't have to work or speak, just
bark or whine or growl, and he doesn't need
thumbs or money or school or girls or God.
And as long as I'm sick, neither do I.


--Gale Acuff