Thursday, February 16, 2017

The Shapeshifters of Bullshitistan - 3

My Dog: Jack of Hearts

A Dog Has Died
by Pablo Neruda

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.

The next post in this series is here, the previous post in this series is here.


  1. Oh man - I know these words in my soul, having lost 3 wonderful dogs over the years (a rescue mini-poo with the heart of a lion and gentle as a lamb; a purebred beagle who was so cute as a puppy he stopped a Little League game so everyone could fawn over him; and my best friend, an absolutely beautiful pit bull mix of about 85 lbs, a loving and sweet constant companion]. Losing a pet is very hard on their human, who becomes attached to them, often caring more about them than their own family.

    I hope you aren't going through the grieving process, Dredd, but if you are - I empathize.


    1. Yes,

      It is the season of grieving Tom.

      Too many things to grieve about, so, we maybe should be careful not to be overcome completely by all of it.

  2. Yikes, I thought it was a parody or the like.