Walking my little doggy,
I must go to extremes. Here we go.
There’s a dog up ahead that needs avoiding,
so we cross the street.
She struggles – I wait –
I pull her back across, then another dog.
We hide behind a tree – she fusses and struggles –
but I hang onto her, pointing her head
between my knees and holding tight.
When that dog passes
we go back to the walking path.
But then another one.
Back across the street we go
– she tries to wriggle out of her harness
but I hold fast.

I keep waiting for the part of the walk
where I can think deep and poetic thoughts
until it occurs to me, of course,
these zig zaggy problems ARE THE POEM.
I wasn’t planning to have a difficult dog.
I was supposed to have one
that would perhaps help me make friends.
We’d stand on corners chatting.

I was supposed to grow old graciously,
slim and lively and vivacious, you know the type.
But instead I have health issues, that’s
what I’ll call them, health issues.
I gotta give her credit,
this difficult dog of mine waited with me
while my health issues slowly improved,
respected my sleep as if she understood.

Now we’re sitting on the turnaround bench,
just a couple of bench sitters.
I always knew I was going to get old, of course,
we all do,
I just didn’t know it would be this version.
And I didn’t know
I wasn’t gonna get the dog I ordered.
So much I didn’t know.
I took her to a K9 behaviorist
who could have charged me
hundreds even thousands of dollars
to train the crazies out of her,
but surprise! This not-inexpensive behaviorist said
Don’t bother.
She said, This is your dog. You can’t train this out of her.
Avoid other dogs.
That was her advice, I swear.

Oh no, as we walk toward home,
one last fellow bumbles toward us
minus a dog but uh oh.
My dog does that thing
where she perks up her ears
and looks eager, interested.
The man is coming toward us, fast.
He says she’s so cute, so curious!
And then she goes nuts
and I say yeah she’s not friendly.
Sorry that’s why we were over here!
shouting to him, holding her tight over by the curb.