I Want My Dog To Outlive Me
And he did.
“More modern poetry is written than read.” P.J. O’Rourke
Philip Rollins was a poet, and I knew him and I remember the night he read his poem “I Don’t Want My Dog to Outlive Me.” The whole idea of the dog “watching over him when he died” and him not wanting to build “funeral pyres.” Well, sure, the audience nodded and had a few tears. Who wouldn’t hearing nonsense like that? But I can tell you Rollins and that dog were never close. In fact, they hated each other’s guts.
Rollins got Fred from the pound, saying it was time he gave back to the world that endeared him. He’d even described the poem as a “sacred trust.” If we have the fingers to give, then let’s give, and if we have the heart to love, then let’s love.
They were more likely to be fighting over a piece of gristle on the rug.
I doubt Rollins or Fred saw fingers or hearts in any act of giving. They were more likely to be fighting over a piece of gristle on the rug. If Rollins fell asleep with a drink in his hand, the drink would be lapped up in that dog’s slathering jaws. If the woman down the block — who loved Rollins’ poetry — baked them a pie, it would disappear the minute Rollins turned his back.
He never even named Fred for the longest time. I finally told him to just call the dog Sparky or Duke. That didn’t sit well with Rollins. He’d start that “sacred trust” business again, telling me his poet’s heart couldn’t settle for Sparky or Duke — like, fuck — he was no duke.
So I started calling the dog Fred just so the dog had a name. Eventually, Rollins called him Fred, too.
When Rollins’ poems were published by a small university press, he did a reading and signing one night. The poem that got the most applause was “I Want My Dog To Outlive Me.” They called it one of Rollins’ best works, and the book’s cover showed Fred asleep at Rollins’ feet. I never saw Fred at Rollins’ feet.
After the reading, I went over to Rollins’ house. I found him in his usual chair, wearing those pants that were two sizes too big. He was a large man, a drinker and a smoker. At one time, he’d used to box. That was “too many lives go,” as he liked to say, his face showing at least nine of those lives, all battered, what some people mistook for wise.
“So what did you think?” he said, getting up to mix another drink.
“It went okay,” I said. “Where’s Fred?”
“Outside,” he said. “Go let him in if you want.”
Fred laid down in the corner on an old blanket. He put his head on his paws, then rolled on his side.
I opened the back door. Fred was sitting there on the steps, staring out at something. His tail moved once when I called him. “Come on, Fred,” I said. “Let’s go. It’s freezing out here.” He got up slowly and came into the house. Rollins was back in his chair. Fred laid down in the corner on an old blanket. He put his head on his paws, then rolled on his side.
“He had the shits this morning,” Rollins said.
“Something he ate?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Every time I let him out, he sneaks through the hole in the fence, and goes begging for food. Everyone in the neighbourhood thinks I’m starving him. Agnes down the road is probably giving him tarts.”
“Tell her it’s giving him the shits.”
“I’ll do it next time I see her.”
He took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“That was some applause, huh?” he said.
“They seemed to like it,” I replied.
“Seemed to? They bloody well loved it. They called it ‘deep.’”
“That’s pretty funny.”
Rollins gave me the eye.
“Whatdya mean funny?”
“You being deep.”
“C’mon,” I said, “you love Fred about as much as you love yourself.”
I wasn’t in the habit of calling Rollins a fraud, but his poem had about as much depth as one of those open-sewage canals that empties into the ocean just south of Los Angeles.
“What the hell do you know?” he said.
“C’mon,” I said, “you love Fred about as much as you love yourself.”
“That so?” he said. “You’re an expert on love now?”
I picked up his book off the coffee table and opened it.
“‘We stay in touch, you and me on the backlot of life— ’”
“Fuck off.”
“‘ — what tested us in life, our despicable yet profound life— ’”
“I told you to fuck off.”
Fred looked up when Rollins raised his voice. His tail thumped once.
“‘ — now tests us in consuming and disasterous death — ’”
Rollin threw his glass straight at my head. It smashed into the fireplace. Fred was up now, barking, as he always did when Rollins had his rages. The more Fred barked, the more Rollins yelled, telling me and Fred to get out — piss off, fuck off, don’t come back.
“Hey, Rollins, you gonna open up?” I said. He didn’t answer. I finally got in my car and went home.
Usually, I’d wait ten minutes or so on the front porch, then open the door, and go sit on the end of the couch. This time, Fred locked the door behind us. Fred disappeared around the side of the house. I knocked once, then opened the mail slot. “Hey, Rollins, you gonna open up?” He didn’t answer. I finally got in my car and went home.
The next day, I drove over, figuring Rollins must be up. As much as he drank, he was always awake early. He couldn’t write in the afternoons or after dinner. He was either too full or too tired. He said that after a certain age, all you wanted to do you was eat, shit, and wait for the mail.
He was always saying he got fan mail, some love letters, but all I ever saw were unopened bills. His daughter paid them eventually. She’d come by, clean the house, take the bills and leave. They were never close. They only started seeing each other again after her mother died.
She was a plump thing, late sixties, always worried Rollins wasn’t eating.
When I got over to his place, a woman was standing there holding a casserole dish. I figured it was Agnes from down the street. She was a plump thing, late sixties, always worried Rollins wasn’t eating.
Now she was in the process of trying to look in the window.
“Isn’t he answering?” I said.
“I’ve been here ten minutes knocking,” she said. “The dog was barking all night. I can’t get the side gate open.”
I went around and gave it a kick. The latch was rusty and a tree root had grown up out of the ground, wedging the gate against the house.
Fred was barking again. I called to him, but he didn’t come. I finally climbed over and found him wet and shivering, barking at the back door.
It was locked, too. I tried jiggling the handle, then put my shoulder against it. The frame was so rotten, it gave without much trouble. Rollins was in his chair, head rolled back, mouth open. I gave him a shake, but I knew he was dead. Even Fred knew he was dead.
He sat there in front of Rollins’ chair, staring at him.
I let Agnes in the front door.
“I’m afraid he’s dead, Agnes,” I said. “I’ll call the police.”
For some reason, Agnes had put Fred’s blanket over Rollins’ face.
The phone was in the bedroom. I made the call, then came back to the living room. For some reason, Agnes had put Fred’s blanket over Rollins’ face. Fred was whimpering now. I don’t know whether he was whimpering over his blanket or Rollins. I was inclined to think the former.
The police came, then the ambulance, then Rollins’ daughter, Claire. I had a hell of a time finding her number in his phone book. Half the numbers had been scratched out, then put back again, including hers.
Anyway, everything got sorted. When Rollins was taken out the front door on the stretcher, Fred looked like he was ready to go with them.
I asked Claire what she wanted to do about Fred. He was still wet from being out all night in the rain and he hadn’t been fed.
“I can’t take him,” she replied. “We have cats.” It wasn’t said with any malice. Claire simply wasn’t ready to create a situation that wasn’t in her best interest—or Fred’s for that matter. She had cats, cats hate big dogs.
I had a cat, too. Not that I wouldn’t take Fred in a pinch. Thing is, I didn’t know if he’d even come with me. I suggested maybe we leave him in the house over night, at least until something could be figured out.
That didn’t sit well with Agnes.
“We can’t leave him alone,” she said. “I’ll take him.”
As she explained to me and Claire, Fred was over at her place all the time, anyway. She even had a cushion for him. Then she called Fred, but all she got was one thump of his tail. His eyes seemed to glaze over.
“And we are not bound by words, nor the crust of something neither of us believe,” she said.
He just laid there with his head on his paws.
Agnes went over and crouched down next to him.
“And we are not bound by words, nor the crust of something neither of us believe,” she said.
For some reason, Fred looked up, then his tail thumped again.
“He knows,” she said, taking a Kleenex out of her sleeve and wiping her nose. “We are, if nothing else, acceptable…” she went on.
Maybe it was just Agnes’s voice. I couldn’t believe Fred actually understood the words. Hell, I’m not sure I did. But there he was, on his feet now, hearing something he found familiar.
“I guess that’s settled,” I said to Claire. “I’ll go get his stuff.”
I went to the kitchen and found his leash, his bowl, the bag of dog food Rollins kept under the sink. When I came back, Agnes was rubbing Fred’s ears, the tail going. She was whispering more of that poem. I had to hand it to Agnes, she knew Fred better than me, possibly better than Rollins. I said I’d bring over his bowl and the dog food.
I went to hand her Fred’s leash.
“He doesn’t need that,” she said. “He’s coming.”
He was, too. He was already walking to the door — slowly, the way he always did— but going just the same. He looked at us.
“We’re coming,” Agnes said to him.
We went out and I locked the door behind us.
“The casserole,” Agnes said. “It’s on the dining room table.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll bring everything over.”
When I got to Agnes’s place, they were in the kitchen, Fred with his tail thumping on the floor, waiting to be fed. I put everything on the counter and said to Fred, “You be a good boy.”
He just kept looking at Agnes.
I know love doesn’t feed you physically, while sometimes fate does.
I guess it’s like what Rollins said in his poem — which I still think is a stretch — “We were joined by food and walks, by love and fate…” I know love doesn’t feed you physically, while fate sometimes does. Fred was more interested in fate. A poet dies, a dog gets fed. That may not be poetry, but at least it’s more honest than anything Rollins wrote. He was a lousy poet.
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Robert Cormack is a satirist, blogger and author of “You Can Lead A Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive).” You can join him — and others — every day by subscribing to robertcormack@medium.com/subscription.
