Madelyn Garner
A Kind of Knowing
At the shelter: scent of bristle . . . fur . . . rawhide and biscuits, piss . . .
shit. Dog whimpers: Hold me, against. All of which is and is not stray,
scuff-eared and bone slender, he leans into my leg, rubbing skin and
growling in tongues. Give me a hand and I will pat Dog’s back, stroke
out a rhythm; give me a brush, a liturgy, a breathing into. Spirit to Spirit
as the divine whispers Dog’s God story. What stitches us to other
living creatures? Our animal nature? Dog makes me wish I had a
back porch facing an unspooling horizon and yard enough (further
and further) for him to lope back balls, wish on dark weather days
to clasp to my breast the shivering One.