by Walt McDonald

    When I take my dachshund jogging， boys and widows gawk

    and stop tossing balls or lopping limbs off shrubs¹.  They call

    and point at long， pot-bellied Oscar trotting³ like a rocker horse，

    tongue wagging， dragging on grass when he hops⁴ over skateboards，

    long muzzle⁵ wide as if laughing， eager， sniffing⁶ the breeze.

    All Oscar needs is a tree like a mailbox， postcards from dogs

    he barks at at night， and odd whiffs he can't place.  When he stops

    and squats⁸， up runs a neighbor's collie tall as a horse，

    stalking like a swan meeting an eel⁹， muzzle to muzzle in dog talk，

    collie tail like a feather fan.  Wherever we go， we're not alone

    for an hour， devoted¹⁰ hobblers on the block， the odd couple——

    long-legged bony man jogging along， obeying the leash¹¹ law，

    the black， retractable¹² nylon sagging¹³ back to Oscar， who never balks¹⁴

    or sasses when I give the dangling¹⁵ leash a shake， but trots¹⁶ to me

    desperate for affection， panting like a dog off to see Santa，

    willing to jog any block for a voice， a scratch on the back.

    I've seen that hunger in other dogs.  I watched my wife

    for forty years brush dogs that didn't need the love he does.

    When my children visit， my oldest grandsons trot² with him

    to the park， that glossy¹⁷， auburn sausage tugging¹⁸ and barking，

    showing off.  The toddlers squat⁷ and pat him on his back.

    They touch his nose and laugh， and make him lick them on the lips.

    Good Oscar never growls¹⁹， not even if they fall atop him.

    He was a gift from them， last Christmas， a dog their pop

    could take for walks and talk to.  Oscar would have loved my wife，

    who spoiled and petted our old dogs for decades， coaxing²⁰ them up

    for tidbits on the couch beside her， offering all the bliss²¹

    a dog could wish for， a hand to lick， a lap to lay their heads.

    Oh， he's already spoiled， barks at bluejays on his bowl，

    fat and lonely unless I'm home.  But how groomed²² and frisky²³

    he could be if she were here， how calm to see us both

    by the fire， rocking， talking， turning out the lights.

    For Grandfather， in memory of Grandmother Anna

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