The Following Dogs
There are dogs who will follow you
perpetually and as gladly
as if it were their purpose in life,
at least while in the act of following you.
Other dogs enjoy being followed.
They sniff around, look back, then run ahead.
W. B. Yeats, so monumentally heartsick,
spent his boyhood summers
following a black dog and a white dog
around the hilly Irish countryside,
as if that were the purpose of his life,
which it might have been at the time.
Clearly, there are worse practices
than spending your time following a dog
whichever way she may roam
into the woods or across a stream.
How would it be possible
to slap a child or smuggle arms
to a band of wrathful guerrillas
if you’re busy keeping up with a dog?
So, instead of following your bliss,
follow around some lighthearted dog.
Surely, it’s better than doing nothing,
if anything were better than doing nothing,
which, setting dogs aside for now,
is said to be the best thing one can do
or not do, but in a positive way, forever, amen.
As Time Goes By
Like the dog who forgot
where he buried his bone
the old farmer forgot
where he buried the dog.
Trying to Write a Dog Poem in a House with Two Cats
littered with throw pillows
they are staring at me
and my open notebook,
and even though their tails
are not twitching
and their secret inboard
motors are not audible,
I know they are assuming
in unison
that I am writing
yet another dog poem
rather than one about
the two of them,
but as you can see,
they are actually
featured here,
an irony which is all
I have to compete
with their ceaseless gaze.
Billy Collins
