Having no dog,

we often talk about getting one.

Perhaps that's why we have no dog.

It gives us one more thing

to talk about.

 

We had a dog once. And

a rabbit. And anoles.

I would stop at the pet store

to buy plastic bags of live crickets.

They had to be moving

or the anoles wouldn't eat them.

 

We wanted to show the children

how nature works.

Red in tooth and claw.

Eats things raw.

 

Dogs will eat anything.

 

That's what domestication means.

 

We started talking about a dog

when the children left.

Those two rooms we eviscerated

and stuffed

full of things wondering

what they're doing here.

Hands folded. Dressed

as if expecting company.

 

A dog doesn't need an empty room.

It can sleep anywhere.

Prefers your bed.

Doesn't dress for company.

Happy if it arrives.

 

We talk about getting a dog

but never do.

 

A dog? Hair on the bed,

long walks in rain. Standing, waiting.

 

They're not like cats.

 

Before she died, my mother-in-law

bought a mechanical cat.

Batteries made it seem to breathe

in perpetual sleep.

She needed to feel, she said,

that something near her was alive.

 

Cats don't need to be needed.

 

Our dog died of cancer.

Uncomplaining.

Slowing down.

Somewhere inside

the mainspring was unwinding,

losing torque, visibly expanding

in her underbelly.

 

When it was time, we told the kids

as much as we thought they would understand.

I drove her to the vet and carried her in.

"Do you want to watch?" he asked.

Surprising myself, I said I did.

 

Her forelegs were crossed.

 

We stood and waited.

 

The stillness in the room.

 

It wasn't until I reached the car

that the tears came.

From where?

Inside, of course. But

how deep?