WHY MY WIFE SHOULD LET ME HAVE A DOG

 

If I had a dog his soft fur would not foliate

the sofa or trigger asthma attacks 

in my dear wife, ending with a hospital trip, 

an adrenaline shot and those inhaler tubes 

littering the house.

 

His rich brown eyes will convey profound

intelligence and sensitivity to the subtlest

shifts in my mood.  Those eyes will never

get infected and fill with viscous yellow pus

we must wipe with Q-Tips and cure with

sticky ointment, awkward for us both.

 

My dog will lie by my feet while I read

the Sunday Times he fetched from the lawn

and delivered dry from his slobber-free 

mouth, and he’ll wait for his walk

until I complete the crossword.

 

And when we walk he’ll heel until I hurl

a tennis ball. Watch him streak across 

the grassy field, catch it on first bounce 

and, with gleeful tail, surrender the prize to me 

for another go.  He will never drop dead 

birds or vermin on the front stoop like 

the neighbor’s dog they had to put to sleep.

 

At poop time he will drag his leash from 

the closet, jangling across the tile to my chair. 

He will never get diarrhea and soil the Oriental 

then whimper or cower in the corner.

 

And when I have my heart attack, I don’t know

if he will punch 9-1-1 with his nose 

like the schnauzer in the news, 

but surely he’ll cover my body with his so 

the EMTs won’t find me jittery with shock.

 

While waiting for the ambulance, I’ll thank 

my wife for this beast, warming the pain, 

a gift as perfect as our children who, 

when we play tennis, won’t serve as hard 

as they can and will blow some shots 

to let me think that by some necessary miracle 

I’ve survived and will win in the end.

 

(JAMA, “Poetry & Medicine” June 23/30/2010)