A Response to Mark Doty

The first thing you notice

when you're dog has stomach cancer

is that she eats less

and shits more often,

usually everywhere in the house.

As a puppy Goldie would squeeze between

our legs, as we walked in the front door,

and tear down the path to the beach.

We'd chase after her, leash in hand,

apologizing for her slobbering terrorist affection

and relentless bliss.

Crowds would form around us

as we threw the tennis ball again and again

in the cold and rolling Atlantic.

Goldie would throw herself bodily

into that wet mess, honing out the spot of yellow

among the floating seaweed and debris.

Of course she only swam doggy paddle, but with impeccable form.

Never once did she return without retrieving.

It's in her blood and bones to bring back

what we've lost or tossed away.

Goldie would tear through salty waves

with hacking breath, and when she'd land safely

back upon the sand the audience of beach-goers

would burst into applause.

She never took a bow or victory lap,

but shook herself dry from the last rescue

and waited for me to wrestle the ball

from her vaulted grin and launch it into the sea again.

The day before we put her down

she slumped off the green plaid couch,

which she used to claw and gnaw on as a puppy,

and stood before the living room screened door.

Abigail and I let her outside

and walked down to the beach.

We all sat with our chins in the cold sand, watching the lighthouse spin.

Goldie rolled over on her back and we scratched

her bloated belly,

laughing as her legs thumped out joy.

I wonder what the steady crash of waves

sounds like to a dog,

or if her huge ears used to fill with water

in the days when we played fetch.

Perhaps it was all the saltwater she used to swallow that made her stomach sore,

but nothing can stop a fearless dog.