My Kind of Dog

Choosing A Dog

by William Stafford



"It's love," they say. You touch

the right one and a whole half of the universe

wakes up, a new half.



Some people never find

that half, or they neglect it or trade it

for money or success and it dies.



The faces of big dogs tell, over the years,

that size is a burden: you enjoy it for awhile

but then maintenance gets to you.



When I get old I think I'll keep, not a little

dog, but a serious dog,

for the casual, drop-in criminal —



My kind of dog, unimpressed by

dress or manner, just knowing

what's really there by the smell.



Your good dogs, some things that they hear

they don't really want you to know —

it's too grim or ethereal.



And sometimes when they look in the fire

they see time going on and someone alone,

but they don't say anything.

Today conspired to be a Baloo post.

First, Liat forwarded some other-worldly photos of Baloo on the the icy pond (Retreiver on the rocks?). Then Tereza forwarded a poem (not this one, but a fabulous poem that I will share in the days to come), another reminder of just how much I am coming to love poetry. I subscribe daily to The Writer's Almanac, which I adore. I've found some marvelous poems, plus I learn a lot of odd facts about writers. I recommend it highly!