KODIAK

 

You almost died today.

Through my window, I saw you

stagger, then collapse

onto the snowy ground.

When I came out the door,

you lifted your head to me

and howled your wolfy howl,

then lay still, eyes closed, legs rigid,

as I comforted you.

In my striped pajamas,
hair every which-way,

I wandered the oceanside mansions,

seeking the vet to help you.

He was kind.
On a Sunday morning,
fresh from his coffee,

he came.
He said you'll live.

But I'll never forget

watching you crumple to earth,

victim of human fragility and error,

lifting your head, to howl

your mournful howl.

I'll never forget
how you almost died
today.

Kodiak is my neighbour's dog. He has had a hard life, has canine PTSD, but also the most joyous, loving heart, which I have watched blossom the year I've lived here, because I love him and he loves me. In a perfect world, he would be mine. But we all know this is not a perfect world. He comes to my door for a treat every morning.  I ruffle his fur and tell him what a good boy he is. As his owner leads him away, he looks back over his shoulder at me. It kills me, every time. Yesterday, he got into the neighbour's garbage: chicken bones, some clothlike material and, somehow, maybe off the counter, an ounce of pot. He was comatose all day, thankfully indoors, and not out in the snow. The vet came again, at 5 p.m., to give him an I.V.  By tomorrow, he hopefully will be more recovered. But watching him crumple onto the ground is an image seared into my head. One more wolf, who loves me, and whom I cannot save.