Hush

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

which smell like the popcorn carpet of every movie theater you’ve ever been in. 

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! What a wonderful greeting! 

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, 

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

 

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

We did care about that word HUSH.

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

in his own house, to hush. It was rude, unkind, unthinking, 

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

The Captain stopped barking, sort of (not inside him I bet; those 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, dead on the floor. 

The Guest came inside the house ahead of his woman, passed on 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 polite arms of the party, hugging and educating 

everyone; so me and the Captain went outside and leaned on his car. 

November, night and fireplace smoke coming on early. 

Dark soon, we’d wait; we’d hush him.