"Golden Retrievals," Mark Doty

Fetch? Balls and sticks capture my attention

seconds at a time. Catch? I don’t think so.

Bunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who’s—oh

joy—actually scared. Sniff the wind, then

I’m off again: muck, pond, ditch, residue

of any thrillingly dead thing. And you?

Either you’re sunk in the past, half our walk,

thinking of what you never can bring back,

or else you’re off in some fog concerning

—tomorrow, is that what you call it? My work:

to unsnare time’s warp (and woof!), retrieving,

my haze-headed friend, you. This shining bark,

a Zen master’s bronzy gong, calls you here,

entirely, now: bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow.

"Dog's Death," John Updike

She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, “Good dog! Good dog!”

We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.

Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest’s bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet’s, on my lap, she tried

To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.

Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.

Period Four Bloggies Voting: 4.27.11

Period four, reply to this post for with your vote for today's Bloggies!

“A Friend,” Karley Dobis

A friend that loved everyone,

And always truly cared,

A friend that I could talk to,

And would always be there.

A friend that would help me,

When I was bound to drown,

A friend that would lift me,

Straight up off the ground.

A friend that I loved so much,

I cried and sobbed and tiered,

A friend who meant the world to me,

And is no longer here.

A friend that was the coolest pet,

And an even better bud,

Ever since my friends been gone,

Life has been a dud.

A friend that had diabetes,

But couldn’t be treated

A friend that had to be put down,

To heaven she was greeted.

A friend that deserved to live,

And to be treated for,

A friend that I wish was here,

And I’d do anything to see once more.

I loved her more than anything,

And now I truly know,

That even when life gets rough,

Pets can make it so-so.

She taught me how laugh,

And that it’s okay to cry,

I’m so sorry she had to go,

It wasn’t her turn to die.

Action List: 27 April 2011

A reminder for period four: blogs are due today.

We'll have a "Bloggies" day today; browse the blogs of our classmates and nominate your favorite blog in a reply to this post. Then, make a post on your own blog about it that links to a couple of your favorite posts there--personal, logs, videos, whatever--and then discuss why you like what they are doing with their little piece of the internet. The top three winners will get to skip tomorrow's vocab test!

After that, take some time to log your recent reading, make a personal post, comment on some poems, and do some silent reading, if you're up for that kind of thing.

"Unmediated Experience," Bob Hicok

She does this thing. Our seventeen-

year-old dog. Our mostly deaf dog.

Our mostly dead dog, statistically

speaking. When I crouch.

When I put my mouth to her ear

and shout her name. She walks away.

Walks toward the nothing of speech.

She even trots down the drive, ears up,

as if my voice is coming home.

It’s like watching a child

believe in Christmas, right

before you burn the tree down.

Every time I do it, I think, this time

she’ll turn to me. This time

she’ll put voice to face. This time,

I’ll be absolved of decay.

Which is like being a child

who believes in Christmas

as the tree burns, as the drapes catch,

as Santa lights a smoke

with his blowtorch and asks, want one?

"The Blue Bowl," Jane Kenyon

Like primitives we buried the cat

with his bowl. Bare-handed

we scraped sand and gravel

back into the hole.

They fell with a hiss

and thud on his side,

on his long red fur, the white feathers

between his toes, and his

long, not to say aquiline, nose.

We stood and brushed each other off.

There are sorrows keener than these.

Silent the rest of the day, we worked,

ate, stared, and slept. It stormed

all night; now it clears, and a robin

burbles from a dripping bush

like the neighbor who means well

but always says the wrong thing.