I was running errands in the neighborhood this morning, and I was on the corner of an intersection which I frequently cross often if not a couple time a day, and where there was a coffee cart. As I was waiting for the light to change, the woman in the coffee cart leaned out the window and yelled at me, “Where’s your dog? Is she okay?”
It took me a second to register that she was talking to me, and that her questions weren’t the ravings of a lunatic. When it hit me that these were meant as friendly questions, I responded that the dogs at home.
“I don’t see her anymore. I was wondering if she’s okay.”
“She’s fine,” I said, “we just changed the time we take her for a walk in the morning, is all.”
“Okay, she’s a cute dog. Very funny.”
The light changed, so I thanked the lady, and wished her a good day as I crossed the street.
(This is a Flash Fiction piece that I am releasing to the world…)
No matter what we do, the dog always smells bad. And when I say, “smells bad,” it’s a smell combination of a “wet dog,” and corn nuts. We bathe her with expensive shampoos and conditioners, one’s specifically for serious, industrial grade dog odor. It only holds for a day or two. Then she returns back to her stink. Sometimes with a smile.
We asked the vet about it, and she said that some dogs smell – it’s just who they are. But she ran a couple of tests anyway, to make sure there wasn’t an infection or something worse. Nope, the dog was fine. Her teeth and gums were fine, bloodwork was fine, pee and poop was fine. No signs of infections or parasites. No cancer, no ticks, no fleas, nothing. The vet suggested that we change her diet, maybe that would help. And to be safe, the vet thought it best to shame us – “This is who your dog is, maybe you should learn to accept her.” I accept the dog, just not the smell.
She’s a mix of shih tzu and something else small. Maybe a chihuahua, maybe a wiener dog. We rescued her from a puppy mill, or at least that’s what we were told when we adopted her. She was a sad sack of a lost cause – a little under fed, and not looking happy to be rescued. While the other dogs wagged their tails, and jumped for attention, our dog just lay there on the cold linoleum floor – looking like she’d given up on life. She didn’t exactly exude the traditional joy and happiness that a dog brings to your life. She was giving off a “I’m going to get picked last” vibe. What can I say; I was always picked last. It just seemed fitting.
We wanted an animal in our life; my wife wanted a dog, and I wanted a cat. The animal adoption event at the Paramus Petco only had dogs, though the Facebook posting said cats would be available. But when you walk on the lot, you gotta buy. We just assumed that the bad smell was due to neglect. How were we to know it was a factory setting. We made sure we added pet shampoo to our overflowing cart of pet supplies at the store.
She was nervous to come home with us; shook the whole way. The wife wrapped her in a blanket from the trunk to see if that would calm her down. It didn’t. She shivered but didn’t make a sound. At home, we fed her and bathed her, and let her explore our apartment. We sat on the couch and watched her sniff around wondering what she would do next, which was to take a big poop in the middle of the living room. In hindsight, we should have walked her when we got home.
Walking her was an enlightening adventure. We discovered that our dog hated all other dogs. Our little dog displayed a level of animosity and rage that I didn’t think was possible for an animal. She would growl, hiss, and bark. Spit would fly out of her mouth, and her fur would stand up. Possession might be a good word to use – as it was like the Devil entered her body. And it didn’t matter what the other dog’s reaction was, our little guy still wanted to kill them. Once, she pulled so hard on her leash, she almost chocked herself out. So, walks became a game of avoiding other dogs.
Before you ask, yes we tried all the training tricks to get her to be more comfortable around other dogs. We tried treats, and positive reinforcements, a firm hand, and all that other dog whisperer shit. Nothing took. We had a neighbor in our building who was a dog walker. She was positive she could train our dog. After three days, even she gave up. And she couldn’t figure it out either. Why was the dog so nice to people, but when another dog came around, she devolved into a demon? It’s just who she is, we told the neighbor, and we accept that this is who she is.
(The prose poetry piece “Plum Mother” by Michael Nickels-Wisdom was published August 27th, 2025 on Lost Balloon.)
I don’t know if there is officially a genre of poetry that is about pets, but there should be. Most of these pieces are melancholic in nature and conclude with the pet passing on. What these pieces remind me of is Poe’s “The Philosophy of Composition,” in which he states that, “the death, then, of a beautiful woman is unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.” I would argue, and I am not making a joke here, that you could substitute one’s “pet” and come to the same conclusion.
Please, let me explain…
I was struck by this thought of while reading Michael Nickels-Wisdom’s “Plumb Mother.” This is a short prose poetry piece and it would be easy, and unwise, to simply see this as an anecdote of the speaker’s quirky but loved dog. From the beginning, the dog is delivered from above, down to the speaker, and by the second line it is established that the dog is well taken care of and has lived a long life of 17 years with the speaker and their family. In the dog’s middle age, she is given a plum which she treats as a child; acting as if it were nursing and defending the plum when it is “threatened.” Unfortunately, the plum withers, leaving the dog to set it down and mourn its passing.
Poetry can exist and function in a timeless state, but in this piece we clearly have a past and a present. This dog now exists in the past, as we are told that in the second line, which hits on the “most poetical topic in the world,” while also establishing a melancholy feel for the rest of the poem. Though the story of the dog’s actions with the plum are humorous, it is in the last line where it is understood that there are two sets of mourning occurring here; the dog and the speaker. Yes, this is a piece about a funny incident with a dog, but it is a testament to the affection the speaker has for their pet, and to the joy and affirmation that a pet can bring to one’s life.
It is tragic when a loved pet passes on from our families. They do give so much to enrich our lives. Reading “Plum Mother” reminded me of the tragic truth of having a pet, as we will out live them, but loving an animal as a family member is always a gift.
