Big Dog and Me

The big dog and I have tramped these woods

so much we’ve become familiar with them,

and with each other. We know the sounds

of our own footprints on the soft bed of the forest

and the crunch of leaves come autumn,

even the whispered fall of snow turning it

white and silent; know the birds and animals

whose space we share, the distant call of a jay,

the sharp rap of woodpeckers hollowing an old

and rotted trunk in search of grubs,

the grunt of a deer in passing, a warning,

and the yip of a fox and her mate, her pups behind.

And I know where she likes to be scratched

behind her ears, the treats and carrots she favors

and how long and far she’ll chase a ball

before she tires, leaving it behind, unretrieved;

know when her walk is called for, our daily traipsing

after dinner; and she knows, too, when I need

a silent walk, or a rowdy romp chasing butterfly dreams

and squirrels, my smile and laughter pursuing her chase;

knows, too, when to let me rustle her fur, roughhouse,

and when just to lie contented at my feet:

this familiarity and reverence we share,

the Big Dog and me.