The Woman Who Talks to Her Dog at the Beach

The Woman Who Talks to Her Dog at the Beach
favours the Socratic method:
“Where’s your stick?”
“What do you think is going to happen
if you keep chewing on that stick?”
“Would you like a treat?”
“Are you ready to go home now?”

Simple stuff.
(Answers: “The stick is behind me.
Soon it will be all gone.
Yes, always a treat.
No, home, never.”)
But in private, later,
the tricky existential questions fly:
“Who’s a Good Dog?”
“Are you a Good Dog?”
“Who’s a Good Dog, then?”

The dog wrestles with the questions.

“I have done whatsoever you have asked of me.
I sat when you required it,
stayed, despite my heart being wrenched
with every step you took away from me.
I confess, alone in exile I have often howled
despairing questions of my own:
‘Will I never see you again?’
‘Are you ever coming home?’
‘Why have you forsaken me?’

“I have dropped what you wanted dropped;
searched out and picked up
what was apparently lost—
all the sticks you could not find,
the balls you could not see.
I have rolled over and plunged myself
again and again into the rime-cold ocean
at your behest.

“Yet still you ask the same question:
‘Who is a Good Dog?’

“There are other questions.
Clearly, yes, of course
I would like to go for a walk,
and it would be most agreeable
a privilege and an honour
to carry the squeaky toy with me in my mouth.
But am I a Good Dog?
Do you know the answer?
Because I would appreciate some clarity.

“Who, on this shoreline,
is a Good Dog?
Are there better dogs than I am?
Please, I hope to have an answer,
before my coat mats
my legs stiffen,
my breath reeks,
and I am finally ready
to go home at last.”

The Woman Who Talks to Her Dog at the Beach
launches her questions into the air.
Life is complicated, and lonely.
There is heartbreak in the future.
People are difficult,
there is great comfort in companionship,
in the simple love of dogs.