My dog circulates the room
with his tail like one of the inadequate ceiling fans
in that package Spanish hotel
and doesn’t sit so much as he collapses
into my sad father’s lap,
who scratches his ears absently.
What it is like to be so secure in your loves,
I wonder. This tiny thing
surrounded always by alien lifeforms
who is so confident he will be received gladly.
I look at my sad father
and think about all the years one or other of us was lost
and last winter, when he stayed north
and I didn’t sit so much as collapse
into the usual festive panic
and his hand on my dog,
where my hand has been so many times,
where my dog thinks all hands belong.
*from British poet Beth Booth, who, like the Beatles, is from Liverpool, and thus is a Liverpudlian, a word I think I have always wanted to use, but how might I achieve this desired end?! Yes!! YES. With thanks to you, Ms. Booth, for getting me there. 😉 Beth Booth can be found @bethboothy
Dogs have always been among my best and greatest teachers, instructing me about love, unconditional and otherwise, as well as patience, joy in daily life and simple things, as well as the importance of play, puddles, and a friend group you can count on…Years ago I wrote about my dog, Lotte Lenya Lou Mueller, what a Zen master she was, happy to go out, happy to come back in, happy to eat, happy to sleep, happy to meet other dogs and humans, happy to be alone with her mom. Happy. I also wrote how, in stark contrast to the way I spoke to myself, I heaped praise upon her, my darling girl. Maybe, maybe if I spoke more lovingly with and to myself, my life and attitude would improve. Hey. Guess what? It worked.