October 21, 2005

Other Nations

The Snuggle Spot.... Makoa getting a wash from his girlfriend Nani before nap time in their favorite new snuggle spot in the new house.

"Thump, thump thump"
"Woody call your little boy, he's trying to get into the cabinets again..."
"Makkie boy, pretty boy, come get a pet..."

Makoa cant resist Woody, and follows him around like a feline shadow.

We are parents of furry children. We cossett and carry, talk to and spoil Makoa and KaNani to the point of irritation of some, who cant understand that these are the only children we will ever have. I know so many others in the same place in life, and this post is dedicated to them...to all of us who sing baby songs and spoil rotten beloved pets. The unconditional love we get from them seems to demand no less...


Other Nations

I used to think women
who talked baby talk
to their animals
were the rock bottom.
Now I'm not so sure.
Now I open my mouth
and hear, coming out of it,
"Is you a good, good dog?"
words that are falling
in their light, descending order
to two pricked ears,
a hairy face, a glowing eye,
an unbroken concentration on the excellent,
bone-shaped dog biscuit I'm holding up,
increasing our pleasure
with some slight, prolonging chitchat.

My neighbor Zoe,
at twelve, cries to her cat,
"Oh, dearest, darlingest Wooshiekins!"
as she presses extravagant kisses
on the round head of a pale,
torpid marmalade
who doesn't seem to mind
(but her silent father gets up and leaves the room).

"They are other nations,"
my own father wrote,
"caught with ourselves in the net of life and time."
Of course, he meant the wild ones,
but our household allies, too,
link us to a greater world.
We wish we could speak their languages...
and, meanwhile,
they learn ours.

When the rein snapped
while I'm driving home
in the buggy,
with Blackberry trotting hard,
grabbing the bit, through the rush
of a blustery March day,
I don't start hauling
on the other rein
and risk tipping us over
or starting a runaway...
I call to him loudly,
"waaalk...waaalk..."
and after he does that
he hears me say,
"Whoa!" and he does that.

So how can I ever
praise that huge person enough,
those twelve hundred pounds
of best behavior
who may just have saved
my life?
I get out and tie the ends
of the parted rein as he rolls
his questioning eye, and I pat
his strong, damp neck,
repeating, over and over,
without thought,
a mantra of gratitude
to Gods and animals....
"Thank you," I say, "thank you,
thank you, kind fate,
thank you, my good, good friend!"

Poem: "Other Nations" by Kate Barnes from "Kneeling Orion". © David R. Godine.