American Life in Poetry

Considering that I’m a dog lover, I haven’t included nearly enough dog poems in this column. My own dog, Howard, now in his dotage, has never learned a trick of any kind, nor learned to behave, so I admire Karla Huston for having the patience to teach her dog something. Huston lives in Wisconsin.

Sway

The cruelest thing I did to my dog

wasn’t to ignore his barking for water

when his tongue hung like a deflated balloon

or to disregard his chronic need for a belly rub

but to teach him to shake hands,

a trick that took weeks of treats, his dark eyes

like Greek olives, moist with desire.

I made him sit, another injustice,

and allowed him to want the nuggets enough

to please me. Shake, I said. Shake?

touching the back of his right leg

until he lifted it, his saliva trickling

from soft jowls, my hand wet with his hunger.

Mistress of the biscuit, I ruffled his ears

and said good dog until he got it. Before long,

he raised his paw, shook me until he got

the treat, the rub, the water in a chilled silver bowl,

the wilderness in him gone, his eyes still lit with longing.