—I LIKE THE WAY YOU CAN’T PIN DOWN THE SEA

 

How to Lose, or Not Lose, a Dog

 

Preferably in the mall, where a Good Samaritan will find her, scan the scarred and faded tag, then call you while you’re on your knees praying

In a park, with other dogs, all of them strays, even if for the moment, barking, yelping and hopping mad circles as a little girl clutches yours in her arms before saying Lucy? Why that’s the perfect name for a perfect dog. I love you, Lucy

During a family gathering, something chaotic and crowded, like Thanksgiving, Christmas or a 60^th wedding anniversary, the littlest ones playing Hide-‘N-Seek, Lucy concealed too, sniffing and tail-wagging until, hours later, she’s discovered in the coat closet

On your lap, in the car, everything suddenly fried 120 degrees, her chest cracking every .8 seconds, Lucy staring out the window, no shaking this time, her watching the trees fly by as if they’re not even there

On a plastic-sheeted table or gurney, a tube stuck down her throat, kind women milling, asking if you want to say something, anything, before or after

In your office, in the bathroom, downstairs, on the stairs, by the lake, around the corner, at the door when you come through it, by the blueberry bushes where two white butterflies twirl, confused by the altered state of the air

On the couch each night, between your legs, rubbing her invisible belly as she curls and yawns, when you finally muster enough courage and anger to scream at the pillow, Goddamn it, where is she? What have you done with my girl?