All My Dog's Fault

You want a scarf? This wind is numbing icy.

Here. Bundle up against the frigid gale.

No? Suit yourself, though choice seems rather dicey.

I guess you’re young. Perhaps you’re not so frail.

Andre? Oh, yes. He’s friendly. Most labs are.

Care to join us and saunter ‘bout a spell?

We’re wandering around the creek, not far.

This breeze reminds me ‘bout my darling belle.

I always tell the tale of meeting same:

It was all my dog’s fault; I’m not to blame.

I’d been quite happy single, living ‘lone.

It was Andre’s idea to find a bride.

He slipped his collar, leading me to Joan

Despite my yelling to come to my side.

Andre sat next to lovely Joan’s park bench

And plopped his head on her lap—his new pillow.

“I’m sorry,” said I, “please excuse my French.”

Joan smiled and patted dog with fingers willow.

“No harm,” she said and offered slender hand.

“I’ve met Andre. I’m Joan, but who are you?”

Her smile bewitched my thoughts to flee n’disband.

I stammered, sputtered, shook, and said, “Umm, Lou.”

We skied on Half Moon Ridge, near Riversbend.

The mountain was our only chaperon.

Our first date flared warm love by cold day’s end.

I found I wasn’t happy living ‘lone.

We wed next year in winter. Joyous flash!

And for three years more lived togeth’r in bliss.

We learned the other’s habits, quirks, and trash.

She’d prod pet peeves to show I’d made her pissed.

She would abandon cream on counter top

When she had finished adding some to coffee.

She’d keep window open ‘till temp dropped.

And leave on lights all day to bother me.

Whenever I observed the irksome jabs

I’d ask dear Joan to please explain what’s wrong.

We’d sit and talk and little scrapes would scab,

And we’d go back to paradise: love strong.

The little things she did to show affection

Were cousin to her pesky provocations.

She streaked love notes in bathroom glass reflection

Invisible ‘til steam revealed flirtations.

A ritual developed after spats:

When we’d made up I’d always ask her pardon.

“So, am I off the hook yet, autocrat?”

She’d smile but would be silent as a Spartan.

She’d write a note on mirror with her finger.

A jest. “Not yet, my love. You still need linger.”

We had a plethora of ups, few downs.

Our love grew like a pampered garden weed.

Then, after our third blissful year,

Tragedy.

An avalanche. I’ll spare the grim details.

Beseeching God I prayed for Mercy, Grace.

My boist’rous sobs embarrassed blizzard gales

To no avail. Pearl shroud entombed Joan’s face.

Monstrous Father filched my darling lover.

The funeral was nearly year ago.

Andre and I aren’t back to normal yet.

My memories of Joan drift like the snow,

To topple me o’er when least I expect.

The Mountain high accrues the purest snow.

And though my skiing partner’s gone I aim

To strap on my boots once again to go

To Half Moon Ridge and swoop the slopes in pain.

The season’s nearly started. I wax sticks.

And then I notice chilly finger tips.

I walk into the kitchen, seeing window

Is open. “Strange,” I mutter, closing shutter.

“It could just be the wind,” says broken widow.

Andre prods me with wet nose, whines. Cute bugger.

Time flows by drips and drabs while I await

The season cherished by snow bunnies n’me.

I come home from day’s errands, walk through gate,

And notice yellow lights through window shiny.

Andre is prancing when I step inside,

And drop the season’s pass on counter top.

He hops and licks and barks, wagging backside.

As soon as I start petting him, dog plops.

I give Andre beloved belly rubs,

The dog’s preferred love language from best friend.

His back paw pistons while tail fuzzy thuds.

When I return to kitchen, heart descends.

There, sitting by ski pass, a jug of cream.

I imitate a statue for a spell,

Then pick up jar as if in a bad dream.

It’s warm. I open it, sniff, gag at smell.

“I must’ve left it out,” I mutter slow.

But I pause, wonder. First the lights, now this.

Andre yips, whines, then rumbles deep growl low.

I whisper, “Joan, please tell me why you’re pissed.”

The window creaks ajar. A tempest bats

My new ski pass, which flutters down to floor.

I close the window, pick up wayward pass.

Outside, the wind continues its dull roar.

“It could just be the wind.”

Andre and I are walking banks of creek

Enjoying early winter’s brisk north wind.

When little boy approaches us and speaks.

“Hi. My name’s Seven. Will dog be my friend?”

“Forever and a day. Just scratch his belly.”

Andre rolls over. ‘Seven’ pets and titters.

I see the boy is missing fingers three.

A cruel moniker. Kids are mean critters.

“Hey Seven!” hails from ‘cross the icy park.

I see the lad’s small chums are balling snow.

Young Seven shrieks and runs. Andre bolts, barks.

The snowball fight continues ‘till dog’s slow.

Andre returns wet, panting, blissful weary.

I brush the snow off pooch, and saunter on.

Behind I hear, “Um, mister,” voice meek n’dreary.

I turn. Andre’s new pal’s bright smile is gone.

“She wants me to tell you to stay at home,

And keep away from Half Moon Ridge’s hills.

She says you shouldn’t go up there alone,

Because that Mountain craves another kill.”

A frigid tingle courses through my body.

“I mean it, mister. Mount’s an evil site.”

He holds up mangled hand for me to see.

“It took my fingers last year with frostbite.”

My stomach clenches tight, my cheeks burn n’glow.

“The avalanche?” He nods. “It killed my bride.”

He looks at ground and quietly says, “I know.

Since awful night, I see the dead topside.”

Then Seven runs to friends.

While walking home I think about my Joan,

And how I’ll never, ever be alright.

“If Seven sees her, why not me?” I moan.

I then begin devising plan for flight.

When we get home the lights are all lit bright

And windows open wide, which I amend.

The cream is out again, a wasteful sight.

I wipe a tear. “It can’t just be the wind.”

The note on bathroom mirror shows in steam

As if t’was written by a slender finger

While I was in the shower getting clean.

It reads: “Not yet, my love. You still need linger.”

I trace the letters with my finger wide.

I imagine I’m touching Joan’s thin tips.

“Bereavement’s ceaseless, Joan. I can’t. I’ve tried.”

My finger squeaks while condensation drips.

I dry and dress and set the kettle t’boil.

Wind bows the boughs and buffets window panes.

The windows yield allowing tempest t’roil.

When closing I spot dust upon restrains.

I can’t recall securing latches prior,

But what of that? A habit’s ordinary.

The glow from loo compels me to inquire;

The bulb’s aglow. I ponder while I tarry.

“Did I turn off the light?”

The kettle’s trilling severs concentration.

I fill the press and reach for cupboard door.

By knob my hand halts in stark hesitation.

By cream, used mug I can’t recall before.

My mind is foggy, my emotions fraught.

I march through empty house and latch the windows.

I check, recheck, then triple check the lot.

I click out lights and sit in blackest limbo.

“Well, Joan, consider this your invitation.

If you are haunting me I need a sign;

I’ll sit here waiting for your confirmation.”

In gloomy silence I dissolve in time.

The rising sunlight flecks the glitter snow.

My love has yet to answer question asked.

Perhaps my presence hinders spirit’s flow.

Perhaps my jumbled mind cannot remember tasks.

“Please Joan,” I pray, “through mystical veil reach.

I’ll leap if there’s a ledge for me to land,

Though suicide’s a sin or so priests preach.

My fingers ache to clasp your willow hand.”

The lights remain dark. Windows stay closed tight.

My lover can’t—or won’t—defy laws nature wrote.

Joan wouldn’t usher me into the night.

Roles r’versed, I’d not guide Joan to Charon’s boat.

Fuck it.

I draw myself a steaming bubble bath

And pour a peated Scotch to tumbler’s brim.

Not caring if I conjure God’s dire wrath,

I perch a glinting razor on tub’s rim.

I dip. I sip. The scotch is smoked velvet.

I savor life’s concluding pleasures, sigh.

The void is calling me. I yearn for it.

The razor beckons. Two quick slits to die.

I reach for blade and look at foggy mirror.

It reads: “Not yet, my love. You still need linger.”

“No. I’ve decided. Mind’s never been clearer,”

I sob at letters written by Joan’s finger.

I clasp inviting razor.

Andre’s paw scrapes at door. He whines insistent,

Then loyal friend laments a haunting howl.

I can’t ignore him. He’s too damned persistent.

I get out of the tub and wrap in towel.

I always tell the tale of living same:

It was all my dog’s fault; I’m not to blame.