The Woman Who Talks to Her Dog at the Beach

favours the Socratic method:

“Where’s your stick?”

“What do you think is going to happen

if you keep chewing on that stick?”

“Would you like a treat?”

“Are you ready to go home now?”

Simple stuff.

(Answers: “The stick is behind me.

Soon it will be all gone.

Yes, always a treat.

No, home, never.”)

But in private, later,

the tricky existential questions fly:

“Who’s a Good Dog?”

“Are you a Good Dog?”

“Who’s a Good Dog, then?”

The dog wrestles with the questions.

“I have done whatsoever you have asked of me.

I sat when you required it,

stayed, despite my heart being wrenched

with every step you took away from me.

I confess, alone in exile I have often howled

despairing questions of my own:

‘Will I never see you again?’

‘Are you ever coming home?’

‘Why have you forsaken me?’

“I have dropped what you wanted dropped;

searched out and picked up

what was apparently lost—

all the sticks you could not find,

the balls you could not see.

I have rolled over and plunged myself

again and again into the rime-cold ocean

at your behest.

“Yet still you ask the same question:

‘Who is a Good Dog?’

“There are other questions.

Clearly, yes, of course

I would like to go for a walk,

and it would be most agreeable

a privilege and an honour

to carry the squeaky toy with me in my mouth.

But am I a Good Dog?

Do you know the answer?

Because I would appreciate some clarity.

“Who, on this shoreline,

is a Good Dog?

Are there better dogs than I am?

Please, I hope to have an answer,

before my coat mats

my legs stiffen,

my breath reeks,

and I am finally ready

to go home at last.”

The Woman Who Talks to Her Dog at the Beach

launches her questions into the air.

Life is complicated, and lonely.

There is heartbreak in the future.

People are difficult,

there is great comfort in companionship,