Dog Years
I flick between channels and find a doco
on retreating ice caps; the rain here drowns
out the combined whir of fridge and dryer.
Lying on my brother’s leather lounge, Rex
the Boxer twitches his greying jowls
and stares at me like I’m responsible
for the storm outside; I turn the TV off.
Rex is smart: he opens the wire door
by standing on his hind legs and working
the handle, he knows it’s time for a w-a-l-k
once the sun goes down and explains
in barks if he’s low on water. But flashes
of lightning reveal a septuagenarian afraid
of lightning; I can’t comfort him with toys
or slow his heart rate with pats. His tail
is a hairy window wiper when my brother
gets home. Rex pretends he’s forgotten
how to shake paws so that he’s greeted
with a hug instead; I remember how
Dad started shaking hands with us
before beddy-byes and leaving for work
without whispering goodbye, his half-finished
coffee on the kitchen bench
caught the first few scraps of light
each morning. My nose wrinkled
the day I discovered he was drinking
shandies without lemonade. I’ll fall asleep
on the lounge tonight in a break between
the thunder or these thoughts
about my father.
Andrew James Menken