Sick as a Dog

The slobbery hound walked up to me in the park today

His owner tried to control him, but alas, he would not stay.

He jumped up and panted, his vile breath tickled my face

Then he promptly licked my lips, and dragged his owner on a chase.

I watched the dog run away and sniff another’s tail

I watched as he mouthed a decaying squirrel on the trail.

Of course, he stopped to lick himself and to eat some waste

Balking in disgust, I wished the memory would erase.

I have often heard people say that the dog’s mouth appears quite clean

Yes, the cleanest, I repeated, trying to forget what I had seen.

Most dog owners, like me, have experienced a time in which their dog has lovingly licked their face. Of course, once the dog has walked away, I often find myself considering all of the disgusting dead animals, garbage, etc. that a dog encounters and consumes on a daily basis. These thoughts often cause me discomfort and disgust, reactions I express in the poem. For example, the appalled speaker notes the dog’s “vile breath” and consumption of “waste” (3, 7). The negative connotations of “waste” and “vile” directly characterize the disgusting nature of a dog’s mouth, arousing disgust and discomfort. Furthermore, the speaker observes the hound as it mouths “a decaying squirrel” (6). The revolting diction of “decaying” evokes pathos and appeals to the repulsion of dog owners, who ignore the reality of their dogs’ hygiene.  In the end, I refer to the cliche that the dog’s mouth proves its cleanest part (9). This statement juxtaposes the previous revolting characterizations of the dog’s mouth and thus creates irony.  Though I do not challenge the science and statistics behind this claim, as I watched my Springer Spaniels drag a dying baby rabbit to the porch last month, I wondered about the cleanliness of their mouths. Overall, I do not advocate ignoring a dog’s love, but I do encourage humans to acknowledge what their dogs eat—anything and everything.  

Compulsive Line Leader

Dear Meghan ‘06,

Do you remember two years ago, in 4^th grade, when you had an obsession with leading the line? Every day, you would try to finish your work fifteen minutes early so you could clean up and stand by the door and wait for people to line up behind you. The teacher punished you, in the end, and made you the official line ender. Of course, you never accepted the job—you cut past the rest of the students and walked at the front of the line. I roll my eyes when I think about all the time I spent and wasted waiting at the door just to lead the line. Sadly, this childish behavior sparked an unfortunate trend and inspired an obsession which still afflicts me today. Admittedly, I tend to compete when it comes to academics. In my defense, in what other area can I compete? My fifth grade art teacher gave me my first C as I glued “sloppily”, so goodbye art! I dry-heave on mile runs, so I have eliminated athletics. So, I focus my time and energy on my coursework and checking off elements of the mental list of awards competitive academics “should” win. And now, after four years of high school, I have achieved much of what I have wanted to achieve, but I still feel unfulfilled. Maybe I feel this way because I have transformed myself into an antisocial workaholic. Maybe I feel this way because the brief glory of an award fades. Or maybe I have lost sight of myself.   Whenever I see someone who has won awards or has scored well on a test, I strive to achieve what that person did. Unfortunately, in the process of trying to mimic another, I lose sight of myself and devalue my own accomplishments. So, Meghan, remember throughout middle school and high school that you have your own talents which will, in time, bring you success. Do not let this desire for success define you and hold you back from forming new friendships and enjoying life. Do not, as you did in 4^th grade, waste away in front of the door for fifteen minutes just to fulfill your desire to lead the line. Spend a little more time on the homework. Study a bit more. Read. Even talk to friends. In time, the teacher will instruct you to clean up and stand at the door. She will turn to you and call you over and ask you to lead the line to the library. Your time has come. Lead that line thirty feet down the hallway with pride.  

Best,

Meghan ‘13

If you're not the lead dog, the view is always the same.

Whitewash

Happy Hour

As many people often remind me, I act like an elderly person. Of course, friends and family attempt to tip-toe around the term—my parents call me “a woman ahead of my time,” while some friends call me “geriatric.” But, they all imply that despite my outward appearance, inside, I look like an uptight woman with thick bifocal glasses and a walker. Perhaps I convinced them of my old age the time I called up South Franklin Circle and asked to join their gym. They told me I could, of course, so long as I do not disturb the residents during their noon water aerobics courses or during their power walks on the treadmill.  However, I never joined as it cost too much and I despise parting with money—another quality of the elderly. Perhaps I convinced them of my senior tendencies when I expressed my desire to live in the South Franklin Circle community down the street from my house. In my defense, who would not want to live down those quiet streets with paved walking trails, and have access to the many recreation rooms? However, I think my extreme(ly) elderly eating schedule sealed my fate. Confession: I eat dinner at 3:30pm. Once I arrive home from school, assuming I do not have to work or tutor, I begin preparing my dinner—usually a rice or pasta dish. Once the water boils and I have made a pathetic attempt at sautéing vegetables or cooking spaghetti, I sit down, and my mother joins me at the dinner table to watch me eat. Another confession: I sit on an orthopedic cushion at the dinner table. Before my readers begin to judge, I must share that I have a tailbone condition. My coccyx, instead of facing inward like most people’s, faces out at a 90 degree angle, a condition my doctor called “unprecedented.” I prefer to call it highly evolved, of course, especially as I shamefully sit on the orthopedic cushion my grandparents ordered me from one of their senior citizen catalogs. Once my mother joins me at the table, we discuss what we watched last night on PBS. “That was a great episode of Antiques Roadshow, last night,” I prompt her as we chat about the ornate grandfather clocks and homemade quilts that, you guessed, the elderly brought in for valuation. Then, of course, the conversation turns to my favorite show, Downton Abbey, a show which Lauren Lang told me her grandmother also loves, as I finish the last of my dinner around 3:45pm. I quickly clear my plate and clean up the pans before I head up to my room to begin homework. “Be sure to come downstairs at 7:00,” my mother calls to me as I begin walking up the stairs, “Wheel of Fortune is celebrity-version tonight!” I must confess that I have not embellished in my attempt to make this daily routine extreme. I do sit on an orthopedic cushion; I have tried to join the South Franklin Circle gym; I do eat dinner at happy hour. I live an extreme life, at least, an extremely elderly one. So, I need not exaggerate, for if I did, I would wear a Life Alert necklace and carry a walker, and I am much too young—Wait! I have fallen and cannot get up!