By Billy Collins
The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her doghouse
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.
Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance—
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Gandhi with his staff and his holy diapers?
Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.
If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she
would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.
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We had a couple of shopping chores to do Thursday afternoon, so I rushed through some work in the morning in between reading about the unthinkable murders by Hamas and the lies told by the murderers. I was in a shitty mood all day, though after we went to the post office and Kohl's, we took a walk in Marymoor at the dog park and along the river, where pairs of herons were working on nests together.
I chatted with several of my Thursday night regulars on Zoom, then had an Impossible Burger for dinner. Afterward we watched this week's Ghosts and Animal Control -- the latter involving penguins, which was adorable, the former full of Italian stereotypes, so not my favorite, though next week we get a Hamilton story, so hopefully I'll enjoy that. Now we're watching some late third season House episodes.
