Hush 

Before the party the Captain lay on the floor sniffing his paws 

which smell like the carpet of every movie theater you’ve been to. 

The Guest came in with a macho blast, gusting through the front door 

with his woman, what he called her, what she answered to—so far. 

The Captain jumped straight up off the red linoleum floor, 

red in his eyes, with a lot of big-tooth barking joy! Wonderful! 

What else would a dog want to do in that moment? 

Wouldn’t you, if you were a dog? Oh, yeah you would!  

"Hush," said the Guest, with obvious gravity, an older man; steady, 

so reliable, responsible, his woman’s lover, father figure to her and us all.

 

Except for me and the Captain, we didn’t care. 

We cared about that word hush.

I couldn’t believe it, a man coming into a dog’s own home 

telling him to hush. It was rude, unkind, unthinking, 

unthinkable; already so many ways to feel small and unwanted. 

The Captain stopped barking, sort of, (not inside I bet, eyes so red) 

remembering something in the centuries of dogs about 

being domesticated, about training, something about                  obedience.

But he didn’t get any of that from me; he and I care more about 

friendly and alive than well-behaved for the Guests and dead on the floor. 

The Guest came inside the house ahead of his woman, passed by me, 

but I got right up behind him and bared my own teeth at the back of his neck. 

He didn’t see that, didn’t see me

he stepped over the Captain, 

hugged the others, heading for the appetizers. 

Then the Guest folded into the arms of the polite party, hugging and 

educating everyone; so me and the Captain went outside, right by his car. 

November, night coming on early. 

Dark soon, we’d wait; we’d hush him.