Misty

(written for LSP's "Dogs and Pups" competition)



I was at that age when a child
burns for a dog.

Mom took me to see the pups,
chatting with the lady
while my eyes teared in delight.
"This one," I said, picking up
a perfect specimen, in my youthful
fever dropping it on its back.

Mom gave me the look of death.
Tears of shame welled in my eyes
as she apologized blithely to the lady.
But in my arms, I had my puppy.
I knew her name before I knew her,
"I love you, Misty," rubbing my
face against her wet nose.

My step-father wouldn't let her
inside. So off to the backyard
she went, and I played with her
often, seized as she was with
that crazed shivering excitement
only a dog can have.

But the months passed. I don't know
why, but I played with her less
and less. That mindless passion only dogs
possess, that unconditional love
scared me. I didn't feel deserving
of it, no one had ever loved me
unconditionally before. It was hard
coming from screaming voices
and crashing plates to the wide-eyed,
heart-wrenching acceptance
of a small, furry, defenseless creature.

It all gets blurry after that,
a smear of white running
from one corner to the next
behind a slanted wooden fence.
One day Mom telling me from
somewhere far away, "We gave her
to Hank, baby," holding me as I cried.

Hank, our lawn-cutter, who lived
on a horse ranch, laughed
and ate breakfast with us and
said to cook his eggs real good
'cause he didn't like 'em like snot.

It's been thirty-two years.
Yet Misty still haunts the fields of my dreams,
how I hurt her the day I met her,
made her mine from the start,
hurt her all those days afterwards,
her laughing eyes as she danced
from post to post, eager to be loved.

I like to think of her
roaming Hank’s lush verdant spaces
with a horse by her side,
lean white flanks running in liquid glory,
long pink tongue flying from a mouth open
to the wind in careless freedom.

And as I've grown, I've begun to understand
boxes, cages, impassable perimeters.
The pacing back and forth, aching
for a touch, a voice.

Now the cat stretches regally
on the chaise. She deigns me
a glance, then falls back
to secure oblivion, innately
understanding the limits of
a broken soul’s generosity.

But Misty, I love and miss you,
so very much.
And I hate myself forever
for what I did to you.