Selfishness

I used to sob in front of the dog—before he died,

before I had children or married my wife—his belly

helplessly pressed to the rug that smelled of his sweat

from years of waiting. I know he hated it, that it made

him uncomfortable, embarrassed even, if a dog

can feel the squeamishness of sympathy, like people I’ve

known who turned away from the sharp edges of my

breaking. Like them, he preferred me powerful, my hand

on his head or just beside the collar that told strangers

what I called him. Once at the city park he peed

on a person’s leg—this creature who had always known

who to bark at and who to give his silence—leaning

into their body, gently, under a sky of weak clouds like

stuffing pulled from a couch. He must have known

something about them that I didn’t. I cherished the idea

of his knowing, even as I cried, even if he didn’t know.