On the far side of the park's thick lawn,
a big white dog of uncertain breed.
 
The kind whose head flies high,
muzzle thrust before him,
as he chases the late afternoon light
with a howl, or a growl,
or a doggy version of a purr.
 
The kind that tastes the day
with a long felt-tipped tongue and a slurp, 
the bulb of a nose quivering
at the scent of a rabbit, someone's lunch,
a gopher hidden in a hole.
 
The kind with long-lashed eyes
that scan passersby with longing for a pet, or a handout.
The kind that leaps after a squirrel,
darts after a shadow on the ground,
examines an airplane as it dissolves into fog.
 
The kind that searches in a branch for a wren,
nuzzles into rocks for a lizard,
throws himself at a passing pug,
raises his head to his master's hand
for a caress and some kibble. 
 
This is the kind of dog I saw,
on the far side of the park,
at the corner of Westwood and Wilshire.
This is the dog I saw and adopted,
that long ago day at the park.    


© by Ruth Gooley.
Used with the author's permission.