is dog white. How he opens himself to the world each day—every morning
the same—empties himself, then drinks. How his black pads and variegated claws
click the pavement exactly in time with the barefoot version
of Ode to Joy and he means it. How in the digniﬁed winter of his life he’s so willingly
your child. How the dog recovers. How his heart is an unsealed document and he
writes upon it daily. How inside his small body is a great hall, a library of smells in which
you’ve been permanently shelved. How the dog forebears, how the dog goes about doing
the work of dog. How the dog unmirrors you. How the dog is dog quiet, sprawled
on a pile of clothes. And how the dog allows, hears violin when you throw yourself
across the bed for effect whimpering again in that strange
human accent you have. When you’re down there, trying to tell the dog about your life
how the dog’s best music is listening.
By Kelly Parsons
Kelly Parsons practices with the Mindfulness Community of Victoria, B.C. and the Mountain Lamp Community in Washington.