How to Live: Advice from a Dog

How to Live: Advice from a Dog

I want to greet my life
like my dog when she gets a bone:
tail pointing in the air, head held high,
legs trotting with joyful pride.
She doesn't question if she deserves
her bone; if it's punishment, reward
or bribe, compare this bone to bones of the past.
She settles into a quiet corner of the backyard,
holds the bone steady between her paws,
pulls out the marrow with her teeth.
When she's done, she buries it in the garden
or tucks it under her bed cushion.
Later, she'll find a pile of old bones
and gnaw them all over again.
How much of my life do I meet with joy?
How much of it do I bear, a long tail of chores,
count down until it's done, lean towards
the time when it's over?
I want to inhabit my life, not endure it,
feel the hearth's warm flame, not an endless wild-fire.
I want to be my leaping dog, her delight
as she discovers a long-buried bone in the garden bed,
her joy in walking the same path she's walked for nine years,
her ears perked, eyes at keen attention as I set down her food.
I want to be dogged in my doggedness, abundant in my capacity
to be surprised anew, to discover old treasures buried in the bones
of my backyard, to lick the marrow I find there, the nourishment
waiting when I open my eyes, open my mouth, and feast.

We've had many dogs in our thirty years of family life, with different personalities and temperaments (I can still hear myself groan when I discovered that our dog Kira had knocked over a block of garbage cans again, her impulse from her early days on the street, scrounging for food, still with her.) What they've all shared in common is a love for bones. When I give our dog Bailey a bone now, she leaps five feet in the air (the Jack Russell in her) and prances away so happy, her bone tucked in her jaw.

Watching my dog receive her latest bone inspired this poem, and a wondering - how do I approach my life? What does my dog have to teach me?

Last night I walked my dog under the almost full October moon, the evening cool, the park quiet and silent except for my dog's tearing through the underbrush. She lost her glow-in-the-dark collar, again (one of many this particular dog has lost in parks over the years) but my irritation gave way to delight as I watched her fully embody her dog-ness, her joy in being a dog, in a park, at night, smelling every smell. Could we offer ourselves the same delight as we fully embody ourselves? Could we allow ourselves to be so fully alive? Can we savor our suchness with as much appreciation? I wonder.

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With a grateful heart, Karly