Oh, I Miss You, Shithead!

I digress, remembering San Juan,

Puerto Rico, in December,

specifically four dogs

on the Atlantic Ocean beach

semi-homeless, being routinely

walked late of afternoons to overnight-

stay at the humble dwelling

of a caring, chain-smoking, beer-drinking

dreadlocked guy who made his living

setting out beach chairs for,

and renting out jet skis to, the tourists.

Old Red Bitch and Girlie were the larger

canines, both very short-haired,

both convincingly mongrelized.

Girlie was chiefly black with some brown---

and thin, thin, oh so thin.

Old Red Bitch exhibited, by her appearance,

recent particularly Labrador ancestry;

she was old, rusty red-colored, and slept much.

Willie and Shithead were little rascals.

I watched the active bantam-sized black-and-white,

short-haired Willie as she would more than once,

in a winning effort not to be left out,

eagerly dog-paddle out to an anchored jet ski

and---salt water glistening wetly on her fur---

squeeze next to a leg of her on again-off again

caretaker as he maneuvered the loud, ear-splitting

jetster to a new position, or would prudently

inspect it via a speedy checking-out roaring run,

white seawater rooster-tailing behind.

But Shithead, the only male of the quad,

was my favorite, with his softly wagging tail, stubby legs,

and all. He was a beigy off-white (reminding me

a little of my own Toby), his hair being a fraction

curly and longer than the other of his doggy cohorts.

I would descend on the sunny beach of a morning,

calling, "Shithead! Where are you, Shithead?!"

And he would appear from a sheltering shady

place, tail awag, head down, body beaming

in welcome anticipation, to get his pat and firm

massage from me.

If I stopped my gentle roughing and began walking

on down beach, he'd trail close behind until

I momentarily abandoned the stroll to give him

more of what he wanted; and whenever he got

enough, he'd quit pursuing.