Canine Poetry Isn’t Just Doggerel

Last week, in the confusion of arriving home laden with briefcase and groceries, our little dog slipped out the garage door into the alley and got locked out. An hour or so later, I heard a faint, high-pitched and very pathetic whine. It was coming from a creature whose heart was crumbling. I stuck my head into the yard.

There she was, on the neighbor’s front lawn, fenced in and frantic to come home. I scooped her up, but had to drop her when she attempted her most sincere and fervent gesture of thanks. I wasn’t in a mood to have her tongue down my throat.

She was so ecstatic, you’d have thought the Puppy Prize Patrol had just knocked on her doggy door.

In a way, I guess it had. Poor little co-dependent beast. It takes so little to make her so happy.

My dogs’ moods have been much on my mind, having just read “When Elephants Weep,” a book in which Jeffrey Masson and Susan McCarthy examine evidence that supports their notion that animals lead rich emotional lives.

Masson and McCarthy write about elephants that grieve, about a wild chimpanzee that seems embarrassed when it falls from a tree, of bears entranced by beautiful sunsets and of a contrite gray parrot (who called to his owner as she left him at the vet: “Come here. I love you. I’m sorry. I want to go back.”).

I have never doubted that animals have feelings. I know my dogs love me . . . up to a point. (To get them to drag me out of a burning building, for instance, I’d have to be slathered in Kal-Kan.)

Speculating on the sensibilities of non-human creatures--especially dogs--has recently become something of a literary trend, as writers such as Peter Mayle, Provence’s most famous interloper, and Willie Morris, the Southern novelist, have authored books about their dogs.

For my money, the pick of this litter is a little book called “Unleashed: Poems by Writers’ Dogs.”

“Unleashed” was inspired by Frank, the poetic quadruped owned by Bob Shacochis, the novelist and GQ columnist.

Frank’s eloquent poem, “Wind,” was simple and haunting: “Leaves--I thought they were birds.”

After reading that and other poesy to my Boston terriers, Kermit and Perry Violet, I sensed they wished to unmuzzle their muses.

Terriers, I regret to say, are not masters of rhyme and meter. But what they lack in skill, they make up for in emotion. Frankly, though, I was a little surprised at the anger. That’s art for you.

*

I should mention, by way of introduction to Kermit’s verse, that he is a nervous boy. He came to us fully grown, rescued from the streets by a friend who found him with a collar of coat-hanger wire around his neck. He is unpleasantly single-minded in the presence of balls, and his breath inexplicably smells as though he eats garbage scraps from Mexican restaurants. We surmise from his skittishness and the way he yelps in pain when his ribs and ears are patted that he was abused as a pup.

Or maybe he is just a hypochondriac.

SONG OF MYSELF Nothing, they say, is black and white. Well, I am.

WHAT DOES IT TAKE? May I please have that ball? I would really like that ball. I want that ball. Give me the damn ball.

DIFFERENCE OF OPINION The big bed beckons. Their bodies so warm. “This pillow smells like dogs!” Why is he angry? I like that smell.

BRAVE NEW TERRIER Black and white, Tortilla breath. I am the future: Diversity dog. *

At 13 pounds, Perry Violet is half the size of Kermit, but much fiercer. She preceded him in our lives and, therefore, claims for herself the exalted position of alpha-dog. She has a sadistic streak too. Whenever Kermit yelps in pain (constantly underfoot, the poor thing gets stepped on a lot), Perry Violet rushes him with a snarl. Her behavior is reminiscent of schoolchildren and prisoners when they smell weakness or fear. She has a delicate stomach and her mother, Darla, is a movie dog.

NEW BABY What is that thing? Can I eat it? Can I lick it? No? Then why’d you bring it home?

HOLLYWOOD BITCH My biological mother Is a movie star: Rhinestone collar. Publicity stills. I see her at parties She growls at me: Get lost.

NICKNAMES Oh yeah, I can take it: Perry Vomit Boston Burger Bug Eyes You should hear what I call them.

A BAD THING HAPPENED One time, before Kermit I was home alone A stranger broke in Then a nice cop came He patted me, but stopped smiling When he stepped in my poop.