through the neighborhoods
mostly collar and tag-less
since each knew where it lived.
Alone or in packs of rag-tags,
all breeds, varied mixes and sizes,
once a dachshund trailing in back,
tiny legs a blur of syncopated motion.

Not a foot of our town went unexplored,
the smells so enticing, none unimportant.
And tastes.
They tasted everything.
Even out of town along the tracks
where the Italian section workers left
bits of crusty oil-soaked sandwiches
or the shell of a cannoli.

There were attritions, of course,
hit by cars, dog catchers on the prowl for
reported and random miscreants rounded up
and tossed, unidentified, into the pound.
If your dog was lost,
first you called the pound.

Some wanderers we grew to love
as they stopped by for a visit.
Duffy, who raided neighbor’s yards,
gifting us with one galoshes (galosh?),
the next day the other, dozens of balls,
and once a Red Sox baseball cap--
all for a coveted piece of cheese
and some loving.

At end of day, except for strays
who were never rescued by kind souls,
all returned home to their bowls of
water and kibble, no questions asked,
they slept, full of dog tales, happy yelps
in dreams, remembering their good,
very good day.


© by Carol Amato.
Used here with the author’s permission.