The Day My Dog Died

They put me under and cut me open, removed parts of my spine and then glued my skin back together. Early the next morning, calling me by the wrong name, they sent me home. I was greeted at the door by familiar barking. No one else was there, though the radio was on – an old tape of Glenn Gould interviewing Glenn Gould about Glenn Gould. The dog slinked off. I gingerly climbed the stairs, undressed, and fell exhausted into bed. I may have slept for a couple of minutes or I may have just thought I did. The anesthesia still in my system was messing with my perceptions. I smelled the ocean. A family of orcas bent on revenge for past humiliations might have been angrily battering the hull of a trawler. I tried to pretend that it all made some kind of sense. The dog reappeared, her tail pointing down, a sign that, like me, she was feeling troubled. A massive volume of water flooded into the room even as I spoke to her in my most soothing voice. No worries, I said, no worries. I would never be sure she understood.

Howie Good's latest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is available from Laughing Ronin Press.