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By pigwhisperer, March 12, 2010

“One of the Butterflies” by W. S. Merwin, from The Shadow of Sirius.

The trouble with pleasure is the timing
it can overtake me without warning
and be gone before I know it is here
it can stand facing me unrecognized
while I am remembering somewhere else
in another age or someone not seen
for years and never to be seen again
in this world and it seems that I cherish
only now a joy I was not aware of
when it was here although it remains
out of reach and will not be caught or named
or called back and if I could make it stay
as I want to it would turn to pain.

We lost one of the dogs this week. Negão, an old boy (somewhere between 14 and 16 years), and probably the best dog I’ve ever encountered. He was ferociously loyal and dignified (not a jumper or a licker). He allowed very few people to ever rub his belly. He was famous for his temper–if he didn’t like someone there was no winning him over. But if he chose you as a friend he was sweet and attentive and playful. Farm dogs tend to be a bit rougher than city dogs. We rely on our dogs to protect the property, to sniff out any potential dangers while we hike, to warn us of any foreign presence (man or beast) that shows up. Once, on the road bordering our farm, a man walked quickly towards James and tried to shake his hand. Negão misinterpreted this neighborly gesture as a threat–a stranger was coming too close too fast. He lunged and growled. We held him back. To strangers he was intimidating but to us he was a protector and a friend. I know, a dog is a dog and every life must run its course. But we’ll miss him very much. Cão feroz. Amigo fiel.