by Gale Acuff
When I can’t fall asleep I think about
my dog, Caesar, run over long ago
– thirty-two years it’s been: I spend the night
at a friend’s house. My father picks me up
next day, and, halfway home, at a yield sign,
where Post Oak Tritt runs into Sandy Plains,
Son, your dog was hit by a car last night.
I’m sorry to have to give you the news.
Oh-h, I say. Hmm. I buried him last night.
I heard that unmistakable sound of
moving metal smack a living thing – I was
in the living room, listening to Braves
baseball – and I just knew it was him. In
the bottom of the sixth I got the flash
and went down the driveway to take a look.
Sure enough, it was Caesar lying there,
looking like he was asleep. Some red from
his mouth and his tongue hung out over his
bottom lip but that was all. Real peaceful
– he never knew what hit him. I expect
he was headed across the road to find
a dog in heat, probably smelled her out
and couldn’t fight it. Ah, I say. Yeah. Yeah.
I’m sorry, Son, he says. He was a real
good dog. And smart, as dogs go. Wheelbarrow
was in the garage, full of potatoes
– we’ve got enough potatoes for the next
six months – so I tipped it over and fetched
him from the road and rolled him back behind
the garden and buried him alongside
the rabbit and hamsters and your sisters’
cats. I’m as sorry as I can be. Thought
about telephoning you last night but
I didn’t want to spoil your Friday night,
and besides there was nothing to be done
that I couldn’t do. Thanks for burying
him, I say. We’re on Piedmont Road now, near
the intersection with Canton Highway,
about a mile from home. We’ll run over
Caesar, or the place where he fell. I won’t
look – I’ll be pulled by the left turn to
the right, my side firm against the door. Then
we’ll drive up the hill and our backs will hug
the seat. I’ll think, How many Gs is this?
When we pull in the garage and he kills
the Nova’s engine, my mouth is in gear:
Daddy, what is death? What does dying mean,
I mean. He opens his door but no words
come out, just his feet swinging to his left,
and then the rest of him. I’m paralyzed
– I feel him coming around behind me.
He opens my side and says, No man knows,
Son. No man knows. If I knew, I’d tell you.
But no man knows. Come on out, now. Let’s go
inside. There’s no mutt to kowtow to me,
no pet to lick my hand or jump on me
to be pushed away. No friend’s bowl to fill.
We’re at the front door. Wonder if he knew
how much I loved him, I say. Oh, I’m sure
he did, he says. Don’t worry about that.
Wonder if I’ll ever see him again,
I say. I mean… like in Heaven… I mean.
Well, why not, he says. Love keeps things alive,
he says. Things disappear but they go on.
He says it as if he really believes.
He says it as if he hasn’t before.
He puts his hand on my head. Number one
law of life, he says, is that nothing lasts
forever. Number two’s eternal life.
Ain’t that a contradiction? I’m confused.
Not if you don’t ever forget, he says.
I don’t wanna remember what I lose,
I say. He opens the door. Life and death,
he says, is what makes the world go ’round.
I don’t understand, I say. Yes, you do,
he says. So try not to think about it.
Gale Acuff, PhD has had poetry published in Ascent, Chiron Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Poem, Adirondack Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, Slant, Carolina Quarterly, Arkansas Review, South Dakota Review, and many other journals. He has authored three books of poetry, all from BrickHouse Press: Buffalo Nickel, The Weight of the World, and The Story of My Lives. Gale has taught university English courses in the US, China, and Palestine.
(For canine lovers, don’t forget to check out doG by Val Rigodon. – Elephants Never)