To Otty, Whom I Will Consider (after Christopher Smart)

For I will consider my Dog, Otty.

For he is small, but his smallness fills the room and then the house and then whole universe.

For he believes in God and is pretty sure that God is Whit, who walks him every day.

For he speaks with his eyebrows and cries with his ears.

For he naps the nap of a king’s dog, yet does not forget he is also the sentinel’s dog and yips at

noises in his sleep. Even if it’s the sound of him rolling over.

For he reads Rimbaud, understands none it, but feels for the young man.

For he has learned that resting his chin on my leg, or the chair or edge of the couch makes him more adorable by 75% and thus more likely to get a smackerl of whatever I’m snacking on.

For he waits for us when we are away, but in a way that makes us not want to go. He does not cry by the window or tear apart the accent pillows. He is more like Wordsworth, wandering lonely as a cloud.

For he is a feminist. I’m sure.

For when he sighs, I feel my humanity even more deeply.

But then he is stalking the backyard creatures, standing still for three minutes, tracking the rabbit eating clover, his patience profound, until just the right moment as he leaps off the top step toward it, with a bark and clamor that betrays all the hard work of waiting he has just finished. 

For his refusal, even after 15 hours of being in the house, to step outside, however briefly, to relieve himself in the rain. Or if it smells like rain. Or if there is a bit of dew still on the grass. 

For he demands, as he leans into me, that I be kind, not just to him, but that I be kind and though I fail frequently, often loudly, he has faith that now, this minute, I will recover.