My neighbor’s dog is lost. I’ve had a lost dog once, or maybe even twice, and three or four times. Growing up on a farm, my family had outside dogs. They weren’t allowed in the house. The only leashes my family owned were the ones attached to halters to show cows and heifers at the fair. Our dogs were never fixed. They’d run away while in heat and come back (if they came back) gifting us with puppies. They were mutts. Back then there wasn’t doggy DNA, but if there was, my parents would probably never go through the trouble. They’d probably say we couldn’t afford it. My neighbor’s dog is a lab mix. Layla. She’s friends with one of my dogs. They often play either in my yard or in Layla’s. I have three dogs: Crunch, Smiley Face, and Sneeze. Crunch is a golden doodle, two. Layla’s two. They often exchange kisses through the fence. Over the fence. Under it. Smiley Face and Sneeze are rescues: smaller, older. I’ve had them DNA tested. Sneeze is a Japanese Chin. Smiley Face is Miniature Doberman Pinscher, Chinese Shar-Pai, Papillon, Husky, and some other things. Crunch has a high-pitched bark that goes off when she sees other dogs walking by with their owners. When Layla’s out, they have their chorus. Layla’s bark is more direct, perhaps more of a flat note. Crunch’s bark is sharp, treble. Smiley Face and Sneeze hardly bark at all.
I see so many posts on social media of lost dogs. My dogs are microchipped, and on their collars are their names, address, my phone number. I have very tall fences, making it impossible for them to run away, but if they somehow do, my people can find me. I wonder where Layla is. If someone is gifting her watermelon, her licking from their fingers. If she’s doing zoomies in a sunflower field under an eclipse. If she’s waking someone’s monster. Smelling turpentine, if she’s planning on returning. I prepare an homage to all the lost dogs. As a child, I still remember Polly, run over by a tractor, my parents warning me not to view her body. She was a small dog. She looked like Smiley Face. I’d never seen a dead dog before that.
Kim Chinquee is the author of eight books, most recently Pipette (Ravenna Press, 2022). She’s received three Pushcart Prizes and serves as editor for New World Writing Quarterly, Midwest Review, and ELJ (Elm Leaves Journal). She’s a triathlete and co-directs the writing major at SUNY-Buffalo State University.