I still miss my cocker spaniel that died July 5th 1982 at 3.08 PM the day Italy beat Brazil 3-2 in the World Cup which just goes to show how great I am of letting go of those golden paws resting on my arm infected ears flapping in the breeze a loving tongue licking my eye or wherever wet tongues go when you’re dealing with the embodiment of love and biscuits a thirteen-year-old dog that left the world of tapeworms and playful flesh decades ago but still live on inside your heart roaming through the forest sniffing squirrels spitting out snails with a look of suburban disgust short tail cutting air into pieces once a puppy then a senior canine pissing in all the wrong places preferably on the expensive rug in front of Marc Chagall because the poor dog just wanted to die and we wouldn’t let her Love is such a clinging business love is holding on to water stations cuddles and spaniel spit love is allowing your pet to sleep in your bed until she pushes you out and leave you on the floor with a minor concussion taking over everything pillows armchairs bank vaults the whole doggone universe tongue out eager to please snoring slightly under the cover generously farting in all directions while cancer spread in her body and who knows what else was going on under that golden dome of fur So we took her to the vet and for the first time in her life she ran into the clinic instead of hiding under a Saab as if she wanted to say I’m going away in a heartbeat just hold my paw when I cross and I’ll never leave you whether you want me to or not
Peter H. Fogtdal is a Danish novelist and poet from Copenhagen who lives in Portland, Oregon.
Works in English:
The poetry collection My Crimes of Gelato and
The Tsar’s Dwarf, a historical novel.