It’s not just that they jump up the sofa to the window
and bark excitedly even when the postman’s invisible down the street;
that’s smart; but they don’t stop at that. For those of us
who still have letterboxes in our front doors,
every one’s a tasty finger-trap…and open the front door
to take the parcel – and all hell breaks loose.
You’d think that they’d catch on, that their owners
mostly like to have a dropp each day – even though
its largely bumf (and you can’t even use it for that) :
it’s not bills every day; no, postie’s not our enemy
that dogs defend us from; or do they pick up thrilling smells
even before he’s at noselength, of rival canines
all along his round? Can’t the perfume industry dream up
a body-spray for postmen to please the canine race?
A kinda Mini Factor Inc., ‘Make-Up To the Curs’…
I wonder if the answer’s in the Hindu mould:
that this life is the sweet-sour fruit
of last lives’ actions; even our living form:
Was the postman with the hang-dog expression
who won’t look me in the eye – as if
we both remember some shared former life –
is he on the up: his last life, noble, faithful, obedient dog
with just one fatal flaw: he couldn’t resist a juicy mouthful
of postman’s ankle?
So now he’s born – eternal justice so decreed –
a postman… tooth for a tooth…but carrying in consciousness
a hang-dog memory of that guilt?
Or (since it’s said the number of created animal souls
stays constant) is he on transmigration’s down escalator –
a human failure as a postman, who, out of public gaze,
aims a shrewd and secret kick at Fido… and
with that hang-dog expression….
yes, you guessed it.
I wonder if I should mention this to him?