Dog Years

Tomorrow, I’ll get up early to drive
The dog to the vet. He’s having the rest
Of his teeth removed. They’re decayed,
And he gets gum infections. He bleeds
From his mouth, and his breath smells like
Something that’s been dead for a while.
There’s a hernia too—none of it’s good.
Ximena asked what he’ll eat afterwards.
I told her “The same food. Dogs don’t
Really chew; they mostly swallow.”
This one, named after Joseph Brodsky, is
Nine years old, which for a collie is getting
Up there. The collie who slept in my
Room when I was growing up—or slept in
My parents’ room—only lived to be twelve.
I was away at a high-school debate workshop
When they called me to say they’d had him
“Put down.” I was speaking from a wooden
Phone booth at a college in Texas, and I
Remember the grain of the wood. We have
Lots of euphemisms about killing dogs. I
Think I hate every one of them. When the vet
Gave my doberman an injection that stopped
His heart, I was still young enough not to
Imagine myself like him, unable to walk,
A cancer growing down my spine. Now, it’s
All too easy to picture: the cold metal of
A raised examination table, the professionally
Sad look of the veterinarian as her syringe
Empties into my vein, maybe the distant
Sound of somebody crying, a receptionist
Mumbling under her breath, something
About the “rainbow bridge.”