This is a narrative dog poem,
straight up. The poet’s pup got bullyragged by the local canine Brutus, and
thus came a vet visit, bandages, a period of doggy convalescence on the
screen-porch. Who on Earth doesn’t say, “aww” to that? I grew up with beagles, rabbit-focused
hounds content to mind their own business—i.e., twin obsessions with kibble and
cottontails—but not exactly pushovers in a dogfight either. In the end, as Huck
says, “There ain’t no harm in a hound, nohow.” Nowadays, it’s all cats and
fishes in the pet dept. at my house, and we make friends with some of the local
yard fauna, especially deer, hummingbirds, and Lazarus lizards (a Cincinnati
specialty). Here’s a catfight poem, from some feline bad blood in the household
that took a couple months to settle a while back.
Cat Fight
When you’re at peace in the
window
Personal sun caressing your
golden fur
The politics of insects and autos
The concatenation of birdly
affect
On display for your satisfaction
A lavish production
Regarded from the royal box
And a cat jumps to the window
Outside, no odors to identify
But somehow still present
Representative of that vulgar
polis
That no sophisticated feline need
suffer
Then of course you are to attack
That which comes to your claws’ reach—
Your sister, your housekeeper,
Your food, your own reflection:
This thing may die for you
Or run, or it may fight back.
You may find yourself injured.
In that case, hide under a chair
For some weeks and hiss
At what irks you. Spit,
Knowing that rage sanctifies
suffering
And hatred is its own reward.
In your isolate splendor
You will retain purity
And the loose cats
Of the debased world outside
Will shrink to motes
Of dust in the lights
Of your awful yellow eyes.
KZ
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