The dog in me wants reassurances about the sun and stars. Let’s call him Proclus, the dog who models circles, mimic of the universe as he lies down.
He has come home from the woods; his fur smells of horse weed, a Scandinavian mid- summer scent, part hay, part flowers. That the dog in me has been roaming is clear. Less obvious is his uncertainty, for his instinct is to worship the body’s capacity for survival, but his cultural memory won’t have it–one of the things most people do not understand about him. Dogs do understand death. Meanwhile, the poor boy is epicurean. He knows how to savor found fruit. He does not temporize.
The dog in me likes Derrida on animals but he also likes to eat soap and turds. He does not like operatic music. He does not like men in suits or crowded streetcars.
He is in agreement with Jesus that our father’s house has many mansions.
He sweeps before him an invisible rod made of moonlight.
He stands on the stage of his memories and cannot see the audience.
Like my father’s father he has emigrated from one poor land to another.
In the fields, alone, watching the pheasants wings against a low sky, early, just a few minutes before sunrise.
Which does he prefer, the inflection or the innuendo? He does not like the blackbird any more than the canary.
Of his temperament there is little to say. Optimistic. Resists truth. Likes getting lost.
Nureyev said: “My feet are dogs.” The dog inside me has four dogs to dance on, but you see his tail is a dog, his ears are dogs, even his eyelashes have diurnal appetites.
Did anyone notice the dog in the high autumn grass?
He was like a cricket, rubbing his legs in the last warm sun.
Really, that was all, the sun like tea in a glass, his old magic body staying warm.
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Planet of the Blind 