A small dog considers being rubbed

Just in time for National Poetry Day, which is tomorrow, the 26th August, 2016. A poem written some while ago...

A small dog considers being rubbed

Oh, I can be rubbed until the

veritable cows come home,

those large dociles not of my

own ancestry.

I can lie on my back while you

massage my tummy

(infantile word)

as though I had no organs inside

excepting one organ, a

heart already pulsating

fast, pulsating

faster at every stroke of

your rough hand.

I can have my ears mangled and tangled

around my head as though my

brain barely knew anything beyond the

scratching and rubbing, though

if the need arose, alert

would be my first instinct ˗

if I could choose between

alert and rubbing.

I can have that monstrosity of a

tail, that appendage which is in

reality a curled sausage,

one found after being
left the pantry too long,

that hanger-on covered in

fine fur flailing, a

peacock’s tail, though of course it

lacks some degree of iridescence; I

can, as I say, have it flicked and

fluttered by you without

ignominy.

It is your touch I crave, not

respectability, not honour, not

pride in the self that I am through

God’s own design; I acquire such a

deep intensity through your touch that

all I am as Dog is affirmed.

Food I can fast from; walks can wait

(though not indefinitely);

sleep is pleasant but never the

ultimate necessity. There is only one

necessity: that when I sit snuggled beside you,

or lean my chin on your knee, or

push my head between your shins

like those aforesaid cows calmed before any

possible storm by heads enclosed in a

padded containment; or stand on your

lap, front paws on your chest where the

beat pulsates at a rate

slower, heavier, than mine,

snout to nose, greatly tempted to

lick you, the necessity is

only to be stroked.

Sweep my fur back to front,

I will love you.

Clean gunk around my eyes,

I’ll love you.

Thrust me in a bath and wash my bum,

I’ll love you.

Take me frantic to the Vet’s,

I will love you,

Unconditionally.

Perhaps that’s putting

something too

fine of a point on it:

I will love you

if you rub me. 

The reference to the dog pushing his head between my shins and its connections to cows comes from Temple Grandin's research into cattle behaviour, where cows were made less stressed by being put into a device called a squeeze chute. At least that's how I remember it from the movie where Grandin used a smaller version of this to calm herself during anxiety attacks.