A GENIUS FALTERS

Somewhere, Bukowski wrote
that few dogs had style,
while cats had it in spades.

My late dog Dolly,
a Shepherd/Fox Terrier, had style.
For 14 years, she endured
my human failures---
too numerous to list here---
and never once showed me
her teeth in anger.

She sat and listened,
with love and sympathy
in her eyes, while I spilled out
my fears and frustrations.
Yes, you sometimes reach
that point with other people
where a dog is your last,
and best, audience.

Now that she's gone,
I console myself by
remembering how I made sure
Dolly heard the words "I love you"
every day of her life. 
"A day and a dollar short, chump,"
says a voice, which sounds like mine.
"You said those words to Dolly. 
But she lived them for you."

My only experience with cats
concerned a mangy gray stray
with the yellow eyes of a demon.
My sister, then a teenager, 
dragged the cat home one day.
She said she'd rescued the tom 
from some asshole kids
who tried to set him on fire.

Sure enough, he stank of gasoline.
The few times I tried to pet him,
the cat hissed, bared his fangs 
and lashed at my jugular vein.
I suppose nearly being french-fried
might've colored his attitude.

Ensconced in our garage,
the tom stayed but one night.
He'd vanished by morning---
but only after spraying
everything in the garage,
including the interior
of my mother's Buick. 

The aftermath?
The garage smelled like
the Devil had held 
a fart contest
with Death itself.
Death had won.

I've taken the long way
around Mary Oliver's barn
to make a single point:
Bukowski was a genius.
But sometimes, even 
a genius falters.

J.P. Lowe was born and raised in Chicago and currently live in Edwardsville, IL. His writing has appeared in Cajun Mutt Press, Poetry Super Highway and Everyday Fiction, among other outlets. His most recent book, Flashbulb Danger (Middle Island Press, 2018), is available on Amazon.com.