March 25, 2007

With a roar the metal door on the United Cargo loading dock rolled up; out came a whirring, yellow forklift with a small wooden crate on it. The operator set it down; and, yelling over a deafening jet taking off, he asked if I needed help loading it into my truck. To him it was just another crate, to me it was my dog. Nothing much grows at airports, they are loud ugly places, given to ugly thoughts—this is how coffins must arrive from Iraq—I shook my head and waved the operator off.

Beware of a charming dog. She would need a loving touch, but I couldn’t fawn over this pup. Later, she would need the dog love of a leader, not the gush of a love patsy to walk all over. Dogs are cunning, they appeal to our need to-love with their eyes; but with dogs nothing is certain, they capitalize on the language barrier that inhibits our verbal and rational understanding of them, usually getting the benefit of our doubts: “You must want more food Fido,” we say, appeasing our confusion and inadequacy; even when Fido is not hungry, he gets fed. The discipline that a dog needs is simply the self discipline of the owner. Dogs are like reading poetry that you don’t understand, like poems of John Ashbery, you have to go with them—where faith becomes courage—and a dog, like a good poem, will show you something about language and about the world that is new.

Cautiously, I opened the crate door an inch, then another, until I could get my hand in to grab her collar. God, I didn’t want the pup to get away from me at Kennedy airport; I imagined myself chasing her down a runway with a 747 coming in behind us being pursued by a car full of Keystone Cops. I attached the leash I’d brought along, let her go and out the pup pranced seemingly in six directions at once. Seeing her at last made me smile; she was so small she made New York bigger.

I walked her out to the only natural thing there, a patch of dead grass near the roadway littered with crushed soda cans. I bent down and stroked this fragile, frightened thing, “Welcome little, you’re an American now.” Yes, I was happy; but dogs can bring sadness over me. Is it the responsibility I was undertaking for both of us? I don’t know. For her, this began a life-long commitment; and for me, might it be life-long too. Oh well, there was much for us to learn, for her to trust me, and for me to be patient with her. “Let’s get out of here little, let’s go home.” The pup began to quiver when I placed her on the front seat beside Dominique, who had helped me this Winter with the sheep. Dominique loves dogs, and dogs love her,

I’d brought her along to comfort the pup on the ride back to Goshen. Contentedly, she held the pup close; yes all is well, love is fine, maybe I’m wrong; Patsy had her baby.

I took the Cross Bronx to the George Washington, honking at the errant drivers in New Jersey.

Eugene Wyatt

2007

Poem by Eugene Wyatt