The Forbearance of Dogs
by Rebecca Newth
He puts up with so much,
and here I am not being facetious,
the dirt on his coarse spine
my attempts to pick off a flea
in his intimate place
the Frontline, the Capstar, the wire brush,
also my going away,
a ‘selfish vacation’.
He sits at the gate and
turns his head so as not to watch.
Hey that’s no way to say goodbye!
Nights alone in the house he hears a door
or thunder, cannon,
the cats’ fight.
I saw once the fear, more than once.
Of all that dogs have to endure,
tied up, slammed shut,
hungry enough to eat a coil of rubber,
there is no peace,
until I return.