What Dogs Know (a poem)

I'm lucky to live near Prospect Park in Brooklyn, and one of my favorite things is to take walks on weekend mornings at the tail end (pun intended!) of off-leash time. That's where I got the seed of the idea for this poem.

What Dogs Know

They don’t know who the president is

or the latest hateful thing he said

They don’t know that when we say

the world is on fire

it’s only

(sometimes)

a metaphor

They just know the sound of our voice

the touch of our hand

the smell of treats in our right-front pocket and

the number of seconds it takes

to un-click their leash at the park.

Dogs with their heads

hanging out a car window

do not know the route

or the destination

they only know

the ride,

wind whipping their faces

into a frenzy of delight—

And today

when I walked to the park

earbuds chirping the latest bad news

I couldn’t hear them

but when I crested the hill

I could see

the wagging tails

the leaping feet

the exuberant strings of saliva

hanging from soggy tennis balls

despite the president

despite the news

despite everything.

Dogs know woof

and bark

and nip

and tug

and race

Dogs know jump

and run

and sniff

and chew

and roll

Dogs know play

Dogs know now

Dogs know joy.

And dogs don’t know

who the president is.