by Rochelle Ratner
The story doesn't say what breed of dog it was, or
even if it was large or small. But a friend says she
bets it was a beagle. No, she thinks, couldn't have
been a beagle. Beagles don't crouch on the steering
wheel, they don't watch you drive, they're hunting
dogs, on the lookout for prey. Her puppy kept
outside all day after it playfully bit her. The picket
fence her father built. The puppy instinctively
digging, tunneling, then running, barking, standing in
the street. Lying in the street. Its body crushed like
the plastic model beagle she'd been pasting fake fur
on that she threw against the wall as soon as she got
home, ten years before her first official suicide
attempt. And it was only then that her mother
learned to drive.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.
