Hazel’s Song

This is a piece I wrote about my late dog Hazel, who was my whole world.

She wants to take it all in, the rich smell-songs of the world, wants to learn them all. Every blade of grass, every bit of gravel and every tree trunk tells its own story, sings its own song, and she is listening. She takes her time. Walks slow and purposeful through the world, has her own agenda and her own plans, sometimes coinciding with mine. She is unbothered by the dogs who shout at her as they pass us in the street; she does not acknowledge them, they are background noise and she is learning songs. And anyway she is more than dog…. Her soul is a gentle poet’s soul with all the self-reflection and absorption that implies. She is beyond the realm of casual canine carrying-on and into the realm of the poets.

It’s hard to write a poem about her. It’s hard to write about her at all; she is so deeply present in my world, she shapes it around me; how do you write about air and gravity? She is the golden, dark-striped creature whose long body lies beside my own each night, on a bed just below mine. Her soft cries are what wake me; her quiet contentment is what soothes me to sleep. She asks with dark, soft eyes for things like food and love and attention and I am bound to deliver. She asks to go out and explore the scent-songs of her small universe and I am bound to accompany her. She tells me, it’s time to go into the world now and I say, okay, I’m coming.

She wants to take it all in, wants to trace every scent with her long, once-dark snout. Every blade of grass, every bit of gravel and every tree trunk tells its own story, sings its own song, and she is listening. She takes her time. Walks slow and purposeful through the world, has her own agenda and her own plans, sometimes coinciding with mine. She is unbothered by the dogs who shout at her as they pass us in the street; she does not acknowledge them, they are trivial background noise and she is learning songs.

Once home she rests in contentment on the soft landing of the couch (an effort to climb onto, but she still makes it), adorned with fleece blankets just for her. Sometimes I cover her in a blanket, too, and she smiles as she sleeps, waiting for the certainty of mealtime.

This is her life, these days: a gentle walk, a gentle sleep, a good meal. Sometimes a romp in the yard. Her hind legs don’t work the way they used to, her breath comes up with more effort and sometimes a wheeze, but she still runs. It’s what I tell people when they ask after her. She’s a little slower than she used to be, but she still runs. Like that means everything. For a greyhound, it does.

She’s happy, I tell them. And that does mean everything. She’s happy learning her songs, tracing the same paths she has traced for ten years around the neighborhood. There are certain trees, certain rocks, certain patches of grass at which we always stop. She loves her routine. She makes it mine too.

It’s hard to write about air, about gravity. What you need to live, what keeps your feet on this earth.

I wander into thinking of the future too often, and always she tells me to come back. Stay here, with her. So I do.