The Dog Who Knows

Soniat 19 Theresa M. Pfeifer The Dog Who Knows Some dogs trot down the road as if on their way to an important engagement, fur bristling, nose damp and shining cold. Eyes alert to traffic. A steady pace, a knowing where they go. I wonder if they go home or out to meet a mate. Dignified, smart, serious dogs, going places, going to meet the meat. But this dog is different. This dog knows where I live. It's a skin and bones dog. His spine struggles through his skin like a bat that's been bagged. He sways at my back door. His eyes frighten me. I press my face against the screen and stare back at him. I talk to him. He is my mother behind those white blue eyes. She is lying on her bed grinning at the ceiling, seeing nothing because my father has died, leaving six children who don't understand what it means to lose something. This dog mourns through eternity. He is the dog who knows. I understand his grinning and grieving. He is the All Soul's Day Dog, making his daily rounds. A warning. A blessing. A job to do. ...