He knows before I do —
that walk from the car to the door
takes longer when the set went wrong,
and the dog is already waiting,
brown face pressed to the glass
like a small, patient god
who has seen this before.
He meets me at the door
with a very knowing smell,
puts his head against my knee
and looks up with the face
of a creature who has lived
inside the human comedic space.
He doesn’t care if the room was with me
or the room was cold.
He doesn’t care if the new material
is funny or too bold.
He cares if I have eaten.
He cares if I am sleeping right.
He cares whether we will both go on a walk
later tonight.
I told him my best bit once —
the full fifteen-minute run —
and he listened with the patience
of a very old brown sun,
and at the end he yawned and stretched
and went back to his bed,
which was the most professional note
I ever had said.
He is the best critic I have ever known.
No agenda. No need to perform.
What he feels about the work
is mostly: can we go outside and lurk.
And I go. I always go.
My dog knows.
My dog always knows.
He knows before the van pulls up,
he is standing at the glass,
and whatever it was,
whatever went wrong or didn’t land —
he lets it pass.
He lets it pass.