And I will consider the yellow dog

And Smart saw God concentric in his cat. Smart’s cat, artificing faith from cyclone volition. There is no God in you, yellow dog. Your breath is our daily quicksand; you juggle your legs into an avid heap. You are bent on death. There is no God in you. You are imperfect and critterly. I will consider you, for all of that. Today, as you joust farewell to the park; the pack in their garrison palsy, tails agog, and you, cocking your head to cup Madam’s strewn bark, your nose like an antique brooch in the sun. I will consider you, yellow dog, as you twist in a rapt mechanical dream. I will consider your coat, the color of fenced gold; how you are your own secular halo. I will consider your skull, the narrow skull of a young gazelle whose victory is leaping. And I will consider your eyes, their hazel light a gulp of fire, those firewater eyes, holding now a numb depth down, and milkier flickering monthly. I will consider your youth, when we didn’t know if you would saunter or quake; when we didn’t know if you would prove savvy or giddy or both. It was both. Our frank amaze at your hardy smarts! Our silly delight at each degree of more-than-human knowing. I will consider you, yellow dog, your pale moods and your gazing; your fidgets and your snoozes. There is no God in you, the deep-time of a dog year is enough. And lately you are wiser than all zero. Dear dog, creaking like a haunted house, I will consider you, from bucking young ’un to patient as settling porter; how you held the pack when Fat Man was small and a zoomy nuisance of wriggling. I will consider your narrow self, aslant against my chest in grief, in grieving, overwhelmed, when you were the busy broom that swept the pieces of me together. Yes, I will consider the yellow dog, his bestowing snout in the chill a.m.; his royal cheek and his dances. A yellow dog comes only once and is hisself: brilliant, final, and entire.