When My Dog Ate a Dead Moose

A poem about a naughty pooch

Spring Fling

I should have heeded his dog-speak as he sprung through grass —

It’s a Carcass! It’s a Carcass!

When he finally returned to the truck, we gagged.

Rotted flesh was stuck to his lip, his tail still wagging —

It’s a Carcass! It’s a Carcass!

Now I scrub his fur gooey with long-dead moose,

and imagine how he succumbed to the rank flesh:

kneading, rolling, growling, eyes half closed as he wiggled

his back against slime and decay, indifferent to my call,

intoxicated by his rowdy thanksgiving of stink and sun.

And now, humiliation, purification: orange gloves scour

his tail, groin, floppy ears, and muzzle,

all his precious places soapy and undignified —

such is the prize for frolicking in death,

for finally running to the living in ecstasy.

I’m sharing some of my older poems for National Poetry Month. This was written when my dog took off and delighted himself with a dead moose carcass. The best dog ever could get into some serious trouble.

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