Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

Several weeks after moving to Nashville, our dog Buzz died. We’ve since populated our home with favorite pictures of him. Our relationship with that sweet golden retriever provided us with more love, unbounded allegiance, and companionship than any family should be allowed. And in turn, he had given us a routine by which to channel our devoted care.

Even as the world around us faltered in its promises, we had Buzz, who leapt at us when we returned home from work, who barked viciously and turned into our protector when the doorbell rang, who gave the most endearing kisses and looks of affection at the end of the day. When we lost dear Buzz, for the first time in my life, I cried at the loss of an animal. The depth of emotional injury was palpable and disorienting. I know I am not alone. I watched a neighbor whom, for many years, walked his dog at 7:00 am each morning. Out of grief, he repeated that same walk for about a week, with empty leash in hand.

My family has a shelf of movies to test whether someone new to our orbit has a heart. At the top of this short list is the film Hachi: A Dog’s Tale. based on the true story of a white Akita dog named Hachiko. If said person is not bawling their eyes out by the end of this movie they just might not have a pulse. The movie is in its own category of sentimentality, one which dogs demand of us. Yet, what breaks through is a textured allegory about a dog’s loyalty. A dog’s love is primitive, mythic, and the stuff of folklore.

Today’s poem calls up that immediate gulf of grief and absence when we lose a pet, how we psychologically never let go of this friendship that feels permanent and lasting.

This is a poem by Jin Cordaro.

After We Buried the Dog in the Dark

He came back. I saw him 
in the grass, the white of him
glowing in the floodlight, 
the wind turning it off
and on again. 
I saw his face at the door,
waiting to be let in,
his nose leaving smears
across the glass.
Days later I heard him
in the kitchen pacing blindly
for his supper and 
that night a soft crinkle
as he shifted in his bed.
Love wants to be fed.
It will return
again and again,
holding a memory 
firmly in its jaws, and
you must throw or keep.
It will grow old,
too weak to walk.
You’ll carry it everywhere
at the end until it nods,
turns in a circle,
lies down.

"After We Buried The Dog In The Dark" by Jin Cordaro. Used by permission of the poet.