First hot day of spring, a yellow Lab
in the park rubs himself wild against new grass
—first back, then front, then
back again—drunk with panting pleasure,
unabashed as only dogs can be. Or little boys,
this one a toddler still,
discovering first dog. His? No.
Yes? Let loose, mother-free, he totters close,
promise of golden pleasure
equal or more than the dog's self-scratch,
sniff of flower, whiff of squirrel, scent of dogs just passed.
Always been afraid before,
mother tells walker in a language
neither of boys nor dogs, left to invent their own
wordless words. I watch
muzzle nudge answer stumble-step, lick
ignite laughter, tug of flappy ears get questioned—Woof?
This communion cut short
by the inevitable No, no, no, dog
pulled back and boy's hand enveloped inside mother's
to practice gentle re-approach,
careful pat, when all boy wants is a rush
of furry, welcoming four-legged monster—a union of worlds
of mutual wonder.
Where in lost memory does my own
first dog live? God, what I wouldn't give
to greet that beast again
— By Kelly McQuain